/ 


See  Chapter   XXII 


SPRINGTIME 


THE  MAN 
IN   LONELY  LAND 


BY 

KATE   LANGLEY  BOSHER 

AUTHOR   OF 

"MARY  GARY"  "MISS  GIBBIE  GAULT" 


HARPER   6*    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK    AND     LONDON 

M  C  MXII 


COPYRIGHT.    1912.    BY    HARPER   «    BROTHERS 


PRINTED   IN    THE    UNITED   STATES   OF   AMERICA 
PUBLISHED   APRIL.    1912 


TO     MY    BROTHER 
EDWARD     PORTIUS    LANGLEY 


.96 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  GENERAL i 

II.  THE  REQUEST 8 

III.  SCIENTIFICS 14 

IV.  DOROTHEA  AND  MR.  LAINE 22 

V.  THE  Loss  OF  His  BEST  FRIEND 30 

VI.  A  LETTER  FROM  DOROTHEA 35 

VII.  AN  AFTERNOON  CALL 40 

VIII.  THE  RECEPTION 54 

IX.  DOROTHEA  ASKS  QUESTIONS 64 

X.  A  DISCOVERY       76 

XI.  A  CHANCE  ENCOUNTER 82 

XII.  CHRISTMAS  SHOPPING 93 

XIII.  MR.  LAINE  GOES  SHOPPING  ALONE  .    .    .    .  101 

XIV.  AN  INFORMAL  VISIT 108 

XV.  THE  MAN  WHO  DID  NOT  KNOW      .    .    .    .  116 

XVI.  A  CHANGE  OF  PLANS 123 

XVII.  A  VISIT  TO  VIRGINIA 133 

XVIII.  ELMWOOD 141 

XIX.  CHRISTMAS       151 

XX.  CLAUDIA 158 

XXI.  A  VISIT  FROM  DOROTHEA 164 

XXII.  SPRINGTIME 176 


THE    MAN 
IN    LONELY    LAND 


THE    MAN 
IN    LONELY    LAND 


GENERAL 


M 


R.  WINTHROP  LAINE  threw  his 
gloves  on  the  table,  his  overcoat  on  a 
chair,  put  his  hat  on  the  desk,  and 

then  looked  down  at  his  shoes. 

"Soaking  wet,"  he  said,  as  if  to 
"  them.  "I  swear  this  weather  would 
ruin  a  Tapley  temper !  For  two  weeks  rain  and 
sleet  and  snow  and  steam  heat  to  come  home 
to.  Hello,  General!  How  are  the  legs  to- 
night, old  man?"  Stooping,  he  patted  softly 
the  big,  beautiful  collie  which  was  trying  to 
welcome  him,  and  gently  he  lifted  the  dog's  head 
and  looked  in  the  patient  eyes. 

i 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

' '  No  better  ?  Not  even  a  little  bit  ?  I  'd  take 
half  if  I  could,  General,  more  than  half.  It's 
hard  luck,  but  it's  worse  not  to  know  what  to 
do  for  you."  He  turned  his  head  from  the 
beseeching  eyes.  ' '  For  the  love  of  heaven  don't 
look  at  me  like  that,  General,  don't  make  it— 
His  breath  was  drawn  in  sharply;  then,  as  the 
dog  made  effort  to  bark,  to  raise  his  right  paw 
in  greeting  as  of  old,  he  put  it  down  carefully, 
rang  the  bell,  walked  over  to  the  window,  and 
for  a  moment  looked  out  on  the  street  below. 

The  gray  dullness  of  a  late  November  after- 
noon was  in  the  air  of  New  York,  and  the  fast- 
falling  snowflakes  so  thickened  it  that  the 
people  hurrying  this  way  and  that  seemed 
twisted  figures  of  fantastic  shapes,  wind-blown 
and  bent,  and  with  a  shiver  Laine  came  back 
and  again  stood  by  General's  side. 

At  the  door  Moses,  his  man,  waited.  Laine 
turned  toward  him.  ' '  Get  out  some  dry  clothes 
and  see  what's  the  matter  with  the  heat.  A 
blind  man  coming  in  here  would  think  he'd 
struck  an  ice-pond."  He  looked  around  and 
then  at  the  darkey  in  front  of  him.  "The  Lord 
gave  you  a  head  for  the  purpose  of  using  it, 
Moses,  but  you  mistake  it  at  times  for  an  orna- 
ment. Zero  weather  and  windows  down  from 


GENERAL 

the  top  twelve  inches!  Has  General  been  in 
here  to-day?" 

"No,  sir.  He  been  in  the  kitchen  'most  all 
day.  You  told  me  this  morning  to  put  fresh 
air  in  here  and  I  put,  but  me  and  General  ain't 
been  in  here  since  I  clean  up.  He's  been 
powerful  poorly  to-day,  sir." 

"I  see  he  has."  Laine's  hand  went  to  the 
dog  and  rested  a  moment  on  his  head.  "Close 
up  those  windows  and  turn  on  the  lights  and 
see  about  the  heat.  This  room  is  almost  as 
cheerful  as  a  morgue  at  daybreak." 

"I  reckon  you  done  took  a  little  cold,  sir." 
Moses  closed  the  windows,  drew  the  curtains, 
turned  on  more  heat,  and  made  the  room  a 
blaze  of  light.  "It's  a  very  spacious  room,  sir, 
and  for  them  what  loves  books  it's  very  aspirin', 
but  of  course  in  winter-time  a  room  without  a 
woman  or  a  blazin'  fire  in  it  ain't  what  it  might 
be.  Don't  you  think  you'd  better  take  a  little 
something,  sir,  to  het  you  up  inside?" 

Laine,  bending  over  General,  shook  his  head. 
"No,  I  don't.  I  want  sleep.  I  came  home 
early  to  try  and  get  a  little,  but — " 

"You  ain't  had  none  to  speak  of  for  'most  a 
week."  Moses  still  lingered.  "I  wish  you'd 
let  General  come  in  my  room  to-night.  You 

3 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

can't  stand  seem'  him  suffer,  and  you'll  be  sick 
yourself  if  you  keep  a-waitin'  on  him  all  night. 
Can't  I  get  you  a  little  Scotch,  sir,  or  a  hot 
whiskey  punch  ?  I  got  the  water  waitin'.  They 
say  now  whiskey  ain't  no  permanent  cure  for 
colds,  but  it  sure  do  help  you  think  it  is.  Ex- 
perience is  better  than  expoundin'  and— 

Again  Laine  shook  his  head.  "Get  me  some 
dry  clothes,"  he  said,  then  went  to  the  table 
and  looked  over  the  letters  laid  in  a  row  upon  it. 
"Have  a  taxi-cab  here  by  quarter  past  six  and 
don't  come  in  again  until  I  ring.  I'm  going  to 
lie  down." 

A  few  minutes  later,  on  a  rug-covered  couch, 
General  on  the  floor  beside  him,  he  was  trying 
to  sleep.  He  was  strangely  tired,  and  for  a 
while  his  only  well-defined  feeling  was  one  of 
impatience  at  having  to  go  out.  Why  must 
people  do  so  many  things  they  don't  want  to 
do  ?  He  put  out  his  hand  and  smoothed  softly 
General's  long  ears.  Why  couldn't  a  man  be 
let  alone  and  allowed  to  live  the  way  he  pre- 
ferred ?  Why —  ' '  Quit  it, ' '  he  said,  half  aloud. 
"What  isn't  Why  in  life  is  Wherefore,  and 
guessing  isn't  your  job.  Go  to  sleep." 

After  a  while  he  opened  his  eyes  and  looked 
around  the  book-lined  walls.  When  he  first 

4 


GENERAL 

began  to  invest  in  books  he  could  only  buy  one 
at  a  time,  and  now  there  was  no  room  for  more. 
He  wondered  if  there  was  anything  he  could 
buy  to-day  that  would  give  him  the  thrill  his 
first  books  had  given.  He  had  almost  for- 
gotten what  a  thrill  could  mean.  But  who 
cared  for  books  nowadays?  The  men  and 
women  he  knew,  with  few  exceptions,  wouldn't 
give  a  twist  of  their  necks  to  see  his,  would  as 
soon  think  of  reading  them  as  of  talking  Dutch 
at  a  dinner-party,  and  very  probably  they  were 
right.  Knowledge  added  little  to  human  hap- 
piness. Science  and  skill  could  do  nothing  for 
General.  Poor  General!  Again  he  smoothed 
the  latter's  head.  For  years  he  had  barked  his 
good-bye  in  the  morning,  for  years  watched 
eagerly  his  coming,  paws  on  the  window-sill  as 
dusk  grew  on,  for  years  leaped  joyously  to  meet 
him  on  his  return,  but  he  would  do  these  things 
no  longer.  There  was  no  chance  of  betterment, 
and  death  would  be  a  mercy — a  painless  death 
which  could  be  arranged.  But  he  had  said  no, 
said  it  angrily  when  the  doctor  so  suggested, 
and  had  tried  a  new  man,  who  was  deceiving 
him. 

"You  are  all  I  have,  General" — his  hand 
traveled  softly  up  and  down  the  length  of  the 


THE    MAN   IN   LONELY    LAND 

dog's  back — "and  somewhere  you  must  wait  for 
me.  I've  got  to  stay  on  and  play  the  game, 
and  it's  to  be  played  straight,  but  when  it's 
called  I  sha'n't  be  sorry." 

From  a  box  on  a  table  close  to  him  he  took 
a  cigar,  lighted  it,  and  watched  its  spirals  of 
smoke  curl  upward.  Life  and  the  smoke  that 
vanisheth  had  much  in  common.  On  the 
whole,  he  had  no  grievance  against  life.  If  it 
was  proving  a  rather  wearisome  affair  it  was 
doubtless  his  own  fault,  and  yet  this  rinding  of 
himself  alone  at  forty  was  hardly  what  he  had 
intended.  There  was  something  actually  comic 
about  it.  That  for  which  he  had  striven  had 
been  secured,  but  for  what  ?  Success  unshared 
is  of  all  things  ironic,  and  soon  not  even  General 
would  be  here  to  greet  him  when  the  day's 
work  was  done.  He  blew  out  a  thin  thread  of 
smoke  and  followed  its  curvings  with  half -shut 
eyes.  He  had  made  money,  made  it  honestly, 
and  it  had  brought  him  that  which  it  brought 
others,  but  if  this  were  all  life  had  to  give — 
He  threw  his  cigar  away,  and  as  General's  soft 
breathing  reached  him  he  clasped  his  hands  at 
the  back  of  his  head  and  stared  up  at  the 
ceiling. 

Why  didn't  he  love  his  work  as  he  used  to  ? 
6 


GENERAL 

He  had  played  fair,  but  to  play  fair  was  to  play 
against  the  odds,  and  there  were  times  when  he 
hated  the  thing  which  made  men  fight  as 
fiercely  to-day  as  in  the  days  of  the  jungle, 
though  they  no  longer  sprang  at  each  other's 
throats.  On  the  whole,  he  preferred  the  cave- 
men's method  of  attack.  They  at  least  fought 
face  to  face.  As  for  women — 

He  got  up,  stooped  down,  and  patted  General 
softly.  "I'm  sorry  to  leave  you,  old  man,  but 
you'll  sleep  and  I  won't  be  long.  Why  Hope 
didn't  telephone  what  she  wanted  me  to  do, 
instead  of  beseeching  me  to  come  to  her  that 
she  might  tell  me,  is  beyond  male  understanding. 
But  we  don't  try  to  understand  women,  do  we, 
General?" 

The  big  brown  eyes  of  the  collie  looked  up  in 
his  master's  face  and  in  them  was  beseeching 
adoration.  With  painful  effort  he  laid  first  one 
paw  and  then  the  other  on  Laine's  hand,  and  as 
the  latter  stroked  them  he  barked  feebly. 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  the  silence 
of  understanding  comrades,  then  Laine  turned 
away  and  began  to  dress. 


II 


THE    REQUEST 


ANDS  in  his  pockets  and  back  to  the 
fire,  Mr.Winthrop  Laine  looked  around 
the  room  which  his  sister,  Mrs.  Chan- 
TT-TT -j\  ning  Warrick,  believed  was  a  library, 
VHt/  and  again  wondered  why  she  had  sent 
for  him  instead  of  telephoning  what 
she  wanted.  He  wasn't  going  to  do  it.  That 
is,  if  it  were  one  of  the  old  pleadings  that  he 
would  come  to  her  parties  or  go  to  some  one 
else's  he  would  decline  to  do  it,  and  usually  the 
important  matter  on  which  she  must  see  him 
proved  something  of  that  sort.  Five  years  ago 
he  had  cut  out  things  of  this  kind  and — 

"Oh,  Winthrop,  I'm  so  glad  you've  come!" 
Laine  stooped  and  kissed  his  sister.  "And 
going  out  to  prove  it."  In  a  gown  of  clinging 
silver  over  soft  satin  she  was  very  lovely,  and 
as  he  held  her  off  he  looked  at  her  critically. 
"That  is  a  pretty  dress  you  have  on,  but  there 

8 


THE    REQUEST 

isn't  enough  of  it.  What  on  earth  did  you 
make  me  come  for  if  you're  going  out  ?  When 
a  man  is  my  age  he  is  privileged  to  stay  at  home 
and  enjoy  himself,  not — 

Mrs.  Channing  Warrick  stopped  the  button- 
ing of  her  long  white  gloves  and  looked  up  in 
her  brother's  face.  "Do  you  enjoy  yourself 
when  you  stay  at  home?" 

"I  enjoy  myself  much  more  at  home  than  in 
other  people's  houses.  Where  are  you  going 
to-night?" 

"To  the  Warings.  There'll  be  cards  after 
dinner.  I  suppose  you  declined." 

"I  wasn't  invited." 

"Hilda  wanted  you,  but  knew  it  was  useless." 
Again  the  big  blue  eyes  were  raised  to  her 
brother's.  "What  makes  you  so  horrid,  Win- 
throp?  If  you  go  on  ignoring  people  as  vou 
do—" 

"I'll  have  to  have  paid  pall-bearers  at  my 
funeral,  won't  I  ?  Not  a  bad  idea.  Well,  why 
this  summons  to-night?" 

Mrs.  Warrick  pressed  the  last  button  of  her 
glove  securely,  eased  her  skirt  over  her  hips,  and 
sat  down  carefully.  "To  ask  you  to  do  some- 
thing for  me,"  she  said.  "Channing  won't  be 
back  until  to-morrow,  and  there  is  no  one  to 

2  9 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

meet  her  except  Decker  if  you  don't.  Outside 
of  an  automobile  Decker  has  no  sense  and— 

' '  Meet  whom  ?"  Laine  flicked  the  ashes  from 
his  cigar  into  the  grate.  "Who  is  it  you  want 
me  to  meet?" 

"Claudia  Keith.  She  is  a  cousin  of  Chan- 
ning's  and  lives  somewhere  in  Virginia  on  the 
Rappahannock  River,  miles  from  a  railroad, 
and  has  never  been  to  New  York  alone  before. 
I  thought  I  had  told  you  she  was  coming,  but 
I  see  you  so  seldom  lately  that  I  forget  what  I 
tell  you  and  what  I  don't.  The  children  think 
it's  inhuman.  After  a  while  you  won't  know 
how  to  behave  in  company,  and  what  will  your 
old  books  and  your  money  matter  if— 

"By  and  by  nothing  will  matter,  my  dear, 
but  Decker's  honk  will  be  heard  before  I  under- 
stand what  you're  getting  at,  if  you  don't  hurry. 
What  do  you  want  me  to  do?" 

"I  want  you  to  meet  the  nine-fifteen  train 
from  the  South  and — " 

"Pick  out  an  unknown  person  and  bring  her 
to  a  hostless  house?  I  wish  I  was  as  nice  as 
you  think  I  am,  dear  madam,  but  I'm  not.  I 
suppose  you  also  want  me  to  apologize  to  your 
guest  for  your  absence  from  home,  tell  her  a 
pretty  fairy  tale  and  say — " 

10 


THE    REQUEST 

"If  you'd  say  the  right  thing  I'd  like  you  to 
make  up  something,  but  you  wouldn't.  I  cer- 
tainly have  no  idea  of  breaking  an  engagement, 
however,  just  to  be  home  when  a  country  cousin 
of  Channing's  arrives.  Being  such  an  out-of- 
the-world  sort  of  person  she  may  think  it  is 
strange,  so  please  tell  her — ' 

"I'll  tell  her  nothing."  Laine  lighted  a  fresh 
cigar.  "I'm  going  home." 

"But  you  can't!  You're  to  stay  to  dinner, 
that's  why  I  didn't  telephone  you  about 
Claudia.  The  children  chose  taking  dinner 
with  you  as  their  compensation  for  having 
to  stay  in  on  account  of  the  weather,  and 
they're  hanging  over  the  banisters  this  very 
minute."  Mrs.  Warrick  got  up  and  with 
care  straightened  her  skimpy  skirts.  "Please 
don't  let  them  eat  too  much.  They  can 
have—" 

"Not  a  bit  more  than  they  want."  Laine 
took  the  white  fur  coat  which  the  maid  had 
laid  on  the  chair  a  minute  before  and  held  it 
for  his  sister  to  put  on.  "All  this  sloppy  stuff 
given  to  children  of  the  present  day  will  mean 
anemic  men  and  women  to-morrow.  I'll  take 
dinner  with  them,  and  if  they  are  sick  I'll  take 
the  blame,  but  not  if  the  Virginian  has  opinions 

ii 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

of  her  own  concerning  modern  manners.  Are 
you  sure  you're  well  wrapped?" 

"Sure.  I  hope  Decker  can  find  her,  but  I 
doubt  it.  Maybe  she  can  manage  by  herself. 
Anyway,  I've  done  all  I  could.  Good  night,  and 
please  don't  let  the  children  eat  too  much  of  a 
mixture.  You'll  come  and  see  Claudia,  won't 
you?" 

Laine  shook  his  head.     "I  haven't  time." 

"Time!  Of  all  nonsense!"  She  turned  and 
kissed  him.  "The  children  will  have  you  at 
dinner,  anyhow,  and  that's  why  I  sent  for  you. 
Good  night,  mean  man !" 

She  gathered  up  her  skirts,  and  Laine,  follow- 
ing her  to  the  door,  at  which  the  second  man 
stood  waiting  to  throw  a  roll  of  carpet  down 
the  snow-sprinkled  steps  to  the  car  at  the  curb, 
watched  it  until  the  corner  was  turned,  then 
walked  toward  the  dining-room,  where  two 
young  people  threw  two  pair  of  arms  around  his 
legs  and  rent  the  air  with  two  ecstatic  shrieks. 

"There's  turkey  and  giblet  gravy  and  salad 
and  loads  of  things,  Uncle  Winthrop,  and  I  am 
going  to  sit  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and 
Timkins  says  I  may  pour  the  coffee  for  you  in 
the  library,  and — " 

"Mother  said  I  could  have  some  ice-cream 

12 


THE    REQUEST 

and  two  pieces  of  cake  if  they  weren't  very  big." 
And  Channing  Warrick,  Junior,  aged  seven, 
made  effort  to  remove  Dorothea  Warrick,  aged 
ten,  from  her  point  of  vantage  next  her  uncle's 
right  hand.  But  breath  was  lost  in  the  high 
toss  given  him  by  the  strong  arms  which  had 
sent  him  in  the  air,  and  as  he  landed  on  his  feet 
he  laughed  in  gasping  delight. 

"Come  on."  Dorothea's  voice  was  eager. 
"It's  ready,  and  so  am  I,  and  at  eight  we've 
got  to  be  in  bed." 


Ill 


SCIENTIFIC^ 

S  he  took  his  seat  at  the  perfectly 
appointed  table,  Mr.  Winthrop  Laine 
nodded  at  first  one  child  and  then  the 
other.  "What  very  piggy  relations 
I  have,"  he  said,  opening  his  napkin. 
' '  Not  a  word  of  greeting  to  an  ancient 
uncle,  but  just  an  announcement  of  what  there 
is  to  eat.  One  would  think  you  were  starving." 
"We  are."  Dorothea  laid  down  her  napkin 
and  got  up.  "Excuse  me  for  leaving  my  seat, 
but  mother  said  we  could  have  a  good  time 
to-night,  and  we  can't  if  we're  particular  about 
manners.  I  hate  manners.  *  I  guess  I  get  it 
from  you,  Uncle  Winthrop.  I  heard  Miss  Robin 
French  say  you  didn't  have  any.  She  said 
she'd  invited  you  to  her  house  a  dozen  times,  and 
you'd  never  been  once,  or  made  a  party  call  or 
anything." 

"What's  a  party  call?"    Channing's  mouth 
14 


SCIENTIFICS 

was  full  of  soup.  "What's  a  party  call,  Uncle 
Winthrop?" 

"It's  the  penalty  one  has  to  pay  for  being 
invited  where  one  doesn't  want  to  go.  What 
were  you  saying,  Dorothea?" 

"I've  forgotten.  Channing  is  just  as  rude  as 
if  he  were  somebody!  Oh  yes — I  started  to 
say  I'm  sorry  we  were  piggy  about  mentioning 
the  food  first.  We've  been  crazy  to  see  you. 
We  had  something  to  tell  you.  I  think  I'll  sit 
down  here  right  by  you;  it's  too  far  off  behind 
those  flowers,  and  I'll  kiss  you  now  if  you  don't 
mind."  And  Dorothea's  arms  were  around  her 
uncle's  neck  and  her  cheek  was  laid  lovingly 
to  his. 

"Of  course."  Laine  unfastened  the  arms, 
drew  the  child's  head  down,  kissed  her,  and 
patted  the  little  hands  before  sending  their 
owner  to  her  seat.  "Being  the  beginning  of  a 
woman  you  kiss  and  make  up,  which  is  more 
than  your  heathen  brother  does.  Not  another 
one!"  The  dish  of  almonds  was  withdrawn 
from  Channing's  reach.  "Let  me  see  your 
hands,  sir!  And  you  a  member  of  polite 
society!  Ah,  here's  the  turkey.  And  it's  the 
drumstick  you  said  you  wanted,  did  you, 
Channing?  Drumsticks  were  put  on  turkeys 

15 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

just  for  little  boys.  I  always  got  the  drum- 
stick and  the  gizzard." 

' '  I  don't  want  any  drumsticks !"  Channing's 
lips  quivered.  "I  want— 

"And  he  can't  have  the  gizzard,  Uncle  Win- 
throp,  really  he  can't.  Maybe  you  don't  know 
about  Fletcherizing,  and  you  ought  to  be 
thankful  you  don't,  but  you  can't  Fletcherize  a 
gizzard,  not  if  you  chew  all  night,  and  if  there's 
breast  enough  for  everybody,  I  think  he'd  bet- 
ter have  that.  And  I'll  take  plenty  of  gravy, 
please,  and  stuffing,  if  there's  oysters  in  it. 
Wait  a  minute !"  Dorothea's  hand  went  up  and 
her  head  went  down.  I'd  like  to  say  grace: 
'I  thank  Thee,  Lord,  for  this  sure-enough  food 
and  for  Uncle  Winthrop  being  here,  and  please 
let  it  happen  again  and  don't  let  it  make  us 
sick.  Amen.'" 

Through  the  grace  Channing's  fork  had  been 
suspended,  but  his  jaws  had  not  stopped  work ; 
and  at  the  last  word  he  leaned  forward  and 
made  a  dive  for  the  olives,  two  of  which  he  put 
in  his  mouth  at  once. 

To  the  man  at  the  foot  of  the  table  the  situa- 
tion was  perplexing.  His  niece  and  nephew, 
born  of  wealth  and  surrounded  by  abundance, 
were  eating  with  the  eagerness  of  little  pigs; 

16 


SCIENTIFICS 

eating  as  if  afraid  their  plates  would  be  with- 
drawn before  they  had  had  their  fill.  On  the 
tip  of  Channing's  nose  a  drop  of  gravy  glistened 
in  the  candle-light,  and  Dorothea  was  swallow- 
ing much  too  rapidly  for  health. 

Looking  up,  she  caught  her  uncle's  eye  and 
leaned  back  in  her  chair.  Hands  on  her  breast 
and  eyes  half  closed,  she  sighed  regretfully. 
"I'm  full  already,  and  we're  not  half  through," 
she  said,  and  beckoned  to  the  butler,  who  came 
closer.  ' '  What  kind  of  salad  is  it,  Timkins,  and 
is  there  mayonnaise  on  it  or  that  thin  stuff?" 

Timkins  coughed  slightly  behind  his  hand. 
"It's  mushrooms  and  white  grapes  with  mayon- 
naise, I  think,  Miss,  but — " 

Dorothea's  eyes  closed  tightly.  "Just  my 
luck.  I've  never  tasted  it  but  once,  and  it's 
perfectly  grand,  Uncle  Winthrop.  Mother  had 
it  for  lunch  the  day  that  scraggy-looking 
woman  and  her  daughter  were  here  from  Lon- 
don. Mother  said  she  was  Lady  somebody,  but 
our  cook  is  much  nicer-looking  on  Sundays. 
She  didn't  eat  her  salad." 

"You  ate  it."  Channing's  fork  was  point- 
ed accusingly  at  Dorothea.  "You  licked  the 
plate." 

' '  I  certainly  did. ' '  Dorothea  stood  up,  shook 
17 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

herself,  sat  down  again,  and  carefully  arranged 
her  knife  and  fork.  "We  were  in  the  pantry. 
Antoinette  was  ill  and  Timkins  let  us  come  in. 
You  see,  Uncle  Winthrop,  it's  this  way.  We 
are  scientifics,  Channing  and  I.  We've  been 
brought  up  on  a  book,  and  we  don't  get  enough 
to  eat.  Mother  says  everything  has  been 
learned  out  of  science  now — I  mean  about  how 
much  children  can  eat,  and  how  much  they  can 
drink,  and  how  much  air  they  can  sleep  in,  and 
how  to  breathe  right,  and  Antoinette  says  when 
we  were  little  we  used  to  be  weighed  every  day. 
And  that's  why  we  stuff  so  when  we  get  a 
chance.  I'm  ten,  going  on  eleven." 

"And  I'm  seven,  going  on  eight" — Chan- 
ning had  not  yet  yielded  the  turkey  in  sight 
for  the  salad  to  come,  and  his  fork  was  still 
being  steadily  applied — "and  all  we  have  for 
supper — " 

"Is  bread  and  milk."  Dorothea's  hand 
waved  silence  to  Channing.  "Antoinette  says 
the  milk  is  magnificent,  but  I'd  rather  have 
something  with  more  taste  that  isn't  so  grand. 
I  wish  I'd  been  born  before  all  this  science  had 
been  found  out.  If  we  sneeze  we  have  to  be 
sprayed,  and  if  we  cough  we're  sterilized  or 
something,  and  the  only  word  in  the  English 

18 


SCIENTIFICS 

language  Antoinette  pronounces  right  is  germs ! 
You'd  think  they  were  ghosts,  the  way  she  lifts 
her  eyes  and  raises  her  hands  when  she  says  it. 
And  she  don't  know  what  they  are,  either. 
Did  you  kiss  me  when  I  was  a  baby,  Uncle 
Winthrop?" 

"I  did." 

"In  the  mouth?" 

"In  the  mouth." 

"Well,  they  don't  let  anybody  kiss  babies  that 
way  now.  But  if  ever  I  have  any  I'm  going  to 
let  people  kiss  them  and  squeeze  them,  too. 
I  mean  nice  people.  I  don't  believe  in  scien- 
tifics  for  children." 

"But,  my  dear  Miss  Warrick" — Mr.  Laine 
was  also  waiting  on  his  young  nephew — "sup- 
pose your  husband  does.  Surely  a  man  should 
have  some  say  in  the  upbringing  of  his  family!" 

"Father  don't."  Dorothea  leaned  forward 
and  selected  an  olive  critically.  ' '  Father  would 
let  us  have  anything  we  want,  but  he  says 
mother  must  decide.  He's  so  busy  he  hasn't 
time  to  see  about  children.  He  has  to  make 
the  money  to  buy  us — " 

"Milk."  Channing  pushed  his  plate  back. 
"I  hate  milk.  Gee!  I'm  full.  You  can  have 
my  salad,  Dorothea,  if  you'll  give  me  your  ice- 

19 


THE   MAN   IN   LONELY   LAND 

cream.     It  didn't  make  you  sick  the  day  you 
ate  all  that  lady  left." 

"You  ate  leavings!"  Laine's  voice  made 
effort  to  be  horrified.  "Dorothea  Warrick  ate 
leavings  from  a  lady's  plate !" 

"It  wasn't  leavings.  She  didn't  touch  it. 
I  was  peeping  through  the  door  and  I  heard  her 
say  she  never  ate  trash.  It  was  grand.  No- 
body told  me  not  to  eat  it,  and  I  ate." 

"An  inherited  habit,  my  dear."  Laine  put 
the  almonds,  the  olives,  and  the  mints  beyond 
the  reach  of  little  arms.  "Once  upon  a  time 
there  was  a  lady  who  lived  in  a  garden  and  she 
ate  something  she  ought  not  to  have  eaten  and 
thereby  made  great  trouble.  She  had  been 
told  not  to,  but  being  a  woman — " 

"I  know  about  her.  She  was  Eve."  Doro- 
thea took  some  almonds  from  her  uncle's  plate 
and  put  one  in  her  mouth.  ' ' She  was  made  out 
of  Adam's  rib,  and  Adam  was  made  out  of  the 
dust  of  the  earth.  Ever  since  she  ate  that 
apple  everybody  has  been  made  of  dust, 
Antoinette  says." 

Channing  sat  upright,  in  his  big  blue  eyes 
doubt  and  distress.  "Was  Dorothea  and  me 
made  out  of  dust,  Uncle  Winthrop?" 

"Dust,  mere  dust,  my  man." 
20 


SCIENTIFICS 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence  and  seeming 
thought,  then  Dorothea's  head  bobbed  up  and 
down.  "Well,  we  can't  help  it,  and  there's  no 
use  letting  things  hurt  that  you  can't  help! 
But  I  don't  think  mother  knows,  Uncle  Win- 
throp,  and  please  don't  tell  her.  She  just  hates 
dirt.  Gracious  goodness !  I'm  as  full  as  a  frog, 
and  the  ice-cream's  got  chocolate  on  it,  too!" 

In  the  library  some  minutes  later  Dorothea 
was  pouring  her  uncle's  coffee,  and  as  he  took 
the  cup  she  brought  him  he  bowed  ceremoni- 
ously, then  put  it  down  to  light  a  cigar.  There 
were  times  when  he  wished  Dorothea  were  his. 
If  she  were  his —  He  took  a  long  whiff  of  his 
cigar  and  threw  the  match  in  the  fire. 


IV 


DOROTHEA   AND    MR.  LAINE 


"P 


ARDONNEZ  -  MOI !"  Mademoiselle 
Antoinette  stood  at  the  door.  Around 
and  about  her  hung  blushing  apology, 
and  her  hands  clasped  and  unclasped 
in  nervous  appeal.  The  hour  had 
struck  and  her  little  charges  must 
come.  Would  Monsieur  pardon?  She  was  so 
sorry,  it  was  sad,  but  Madame  would  not  like  it. 
"Oh,  of  course!"  Laine  waved  his  hand. 
"Good  night,  Buster!"  Channing  was  tossed 
in  the  air.  "If  the  gobblers  get  you  to-night, 
don't  mind.  They're  just  turkey.  Good  night, 
Miss  Wisdom!"  Stooping,  he  kissed  Dorothea 
and  unwound  the  arms  with  which  she  clung 
to  him.  I'm  sorry,  child,  but  a  bargain  is  a 
bargain,  and  your  mother  won't  trust  us  if 
we  don't  play  fair —  It's  after  eight  and— 

"But    I   haven't   told   you   what   was   the 
specialest  thing  I  had  to — "    Dorothea  turned 

22 


DOROTHEA   AND    MR.  LAINE 

to  the  woman  standing  in  the  door  holding  her 
brother's  hand;   spoke  to  her  rapidly. 

"Je  vous  en  prie,  Mademoiselle  Antoinette, 
Prenez  Channing  et  ne  m'attendez  pas.  Je 
vous  rejoindrai  dans  un  instant.  J'ai  quelque 
chose  de  tres  important  k  dier  a  mon  oncle — 
deux  minutes  et  j 'arrive!" 

Antoinette  hesitated,  then,  with  a  gesture  of 
despair,  left  the  room ;  and  instantly  Dorothea 
was  on  a  stool  at  her  uncle's  feet. 

"Did  you  know?"  Elbows  on  his  knees  and 
chin  in  the  palms  of  her  hands  she  looked  up 
eagerly  in  his  face.  "Did  you  know  my 
cousin  Claudia  was  coming  to-night?" 

"I  did." 

"Isn't  it  grand!"  Dorothea's  hands  came 
together,  and  in  another  minute  she  was  danc- 
ing round  and  round  the  room,  the  tip  ends  of 
her  skirt  held  by  her  fingers.  "I'm  crazy 
about  my  cousin  Claudia.  She's  my  only  cor- 
respondent, the  only  one  I  love  to  write  to,  I 
mean.  She  writes  things  I  like  to  hear  about, 
and  Christmas  she  sends  me  something  I  want. 
That's  the  way  we  began  to  write.  She  sent 
me  a  present,  and  father  made  me  thank  her 
in  writing  myself,  and  then  she  wrote  me  and 
we've  been  friends  ever  since." 

23 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

Laine  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  cigar  toward 
the  grate.  ' '  I  didn  't  know  you  knew  Miss  Keith . ' ' 

"I  don't.  But  I'm  going  to  like  her  all 
right.  Some  things  you  know  right  here"- 
she  put  her  hand  on  her  breast.  "Father's 
been  wanting  mother  to  ask  her  for  a  long 
time,  but  mother  said  she  knew  she  didn't  have 
clothes  like  New  York  people  wore,  and  it 
might  make  her  feel  badly.  I  heard  them  talk- 
ing one  night,  and  father  said  the  Keiths  didn't 
have  to  depend  on  their  clothes  to  show  where 
they  belonged,  so  mother  invited  her;  but  I 
don't  think  she  wanted  to  very  much.  Do  you 
suppose?" — she  came  toward  him,  and,  with 
her  hands  on  the  arms  of  his  chair,  searched 
his  face — "Do  you  suppose  she  will  be  very 
country-looking  ?" 

"I  really  couldn't  guess.  People  who  live 
in  the  backwoods  and  miles  from  a  railroad 
are  not  apt  to  be  leaders  of  fashion.  Doubtless 
her  hands  will  be  red  and  her  face  will  be  red 
and  her  hair  will  be  red,  but — " 

"I  don't  care  how  red  she  is,  I'm  going  to 
love  her.  I  can  tell  by  her  letters !"  Dorothea's 
shoulders  were  back  and  her  eyes  were  shining. 
"And  I  don't  see  why  you  say  things  like  that! 
I  don't  think  you  are  very  polite!" 

24 


DOROTHEA   AND    MR.    LAINE 

"I  don't,  either.  I  think  I'm  very  impolite. 
It  may  be,  you  know,  that  her  eyes  will  be 
blue  and  her  lips  will  be  blue  and  her  skin  will 
be  blue—" 

"And  that  will  be  worse  than  red.  I  thought 
you  were  going  to  be  glad  she  was  coming. 
Aren't  you  glad?" 

"Shall  I  tell  the  truth,  or  be  polite?" 

"Both." 

"Impossible!  If  I  told  you  I  was  glad  I 
would  be  untruthful;  if  sorry,  I  would  be  im- 
polite." 

"But  why  aren't  you  glad ?  Are  you  too  old 
to  be  glad  over  young  ladies?" 

Laine  laughed.  "I  think  I  am.  Yes,  I'm 
sure  that's  what's  the  matter.  Not  for  some 
years  have  I  been  glad  over  them.  I  don't 
care  for  girls  older  than  you  are,  Dorothea. 
When  they  reach  the  grown-up  age — " 

"Claudia  has  reached  the  age  of  twenty-six. 
She  told  me  so  in  one  of  her  letters.  What  age 
have  you  reached,  Uncle  Winthrop?" 

"Middle  age." 

"Is  that  very  old?"  Dorothea  came  closer, 
and  her  fingers  slipped  in  and  out  of  Laine 's 
hair.  "You're  gray  just  a  teensy  bit,  but  I 
don't  think  she's  a  person  who  will  mind  if  a 

3  25 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

man  isn't  truly  young.  You've  got  such  nice 
strong  arms,  and  I'm  not  afraid  of  lions  or 
tigers  or  bears  or — or  mice  or  anything  when 
you  are  with  me.  Please  like  her,  Uncle  Win- 
throp!"  Dorothea's  face  was  pressed  against 
Laine's.  "Next  to  father  and  mother  and 
Channing  I  love  you  best,  and  I  think  I'm 
going  to  love  her  next  after  you." 

' '  Mademoiselle  Dorothea ! ' ' 

From  the  steps  outside  Antoinette  was  call- 
ing, and  Dorothea  nodded  her  head  at  her 
uncle.  "That's  another  thing  my  children  are 
not  going  to  have.  They  are  never  going  to 
have  a  French  governess  to  put  them  to  bed 
and  make  them  say  their  prayers  in  French. 
I  don't  believe  the  Lord  likes  it.  Good  night, 
Uncle  Winthrop.  I  hope  my  cousin  Claudia 
will  be  politer  about  you  than  you've  been 
about  her,  and  I  know  she  hasn't  red  hands." 
She  waved  her  own  and  threw  a  kiss,  but  as 
she  reached  the  door  Laine  called  her  back. 

"Come  here,  Dorothea." 

She  turned  and  came  toward  him.  "Did 
you  call  me,  Uncle  Winthrop?" 

"I  did."  He  drew  her  on  his  knees.  "Did 
you  say  you  said  your  prayers  in  French?" 

"Every  night,  unless  for  punishment  I  have 
26 


DOROTHEA   AND    MR.    LAINE 

to  say  a  German  one.  Channing  just  shuffles 
his  out  and  runs  all  the  words  together  so  I 
don't  believe  even  God  can  understand  them. 
I  don't  like  French  prayers." 

"Then  why  do  you  say  them?" 

"Oh,  we  have  to!  All  the  children  I  know 
say  their  prayers  in  French.  One  day  six  of 
us  had  a  race  to  see  which  could  say  them 
fastest  and  say  the  most.  I  beat.  Want  to 
hear  me?" 

"Indeed  I  don't!"  Laine's  voice  was  em- 
phatic. "But  I  don't  like  French  prayers  for 
little  American  girls.  I  never  cared  for  par- 
rots or — 

"What  kind  do  you  say,  French  or  Ameri- 
can?" Dorothea  was  stroking  her  uncle's 
fingers  one  by  one.  "I  always  say  my  real 
prayers  inside  after  I  get  in  bed — that  is,  if  I'm 
not  too  sleepy;  and  they're  just  plain  talking 
to  the  Lord.  You  see,  we  are  not  allowed  to 
speak  one  word  except  in  French  to  Antoinette, 
and  mother  likes  us  to  speak  it  to  her,  only  she 
is  always  in  such  a  hurry  she  forgets  half  the 
time.  We  speak  English  to  father,  all  right, 
though ;  father  says  French  for  breakfast  is  all 
foolishness,  and  I  think  so,  too.  We  take 
breakfast  with  father  every  morning,  and  we 

27 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY   LAND 

just  have  a  grand  time.  Mother  is  never  very 
well  in  the  mornings,  so  she  don't  get  up;  but 
we  take  lunch  with  her  when  there  isn't  com- 
pany and  she  isn't  going  out.  Did  you  know 
the  Dufferns  had  a  new  baby  at  their  house?" 

Laine  shook  his  head. 

"They  have.  It's  a  girl.  They  had  four 
girls  already,  and  Julia  says  they're  going  to 
change  their  doctor.  He  always  brings  girls." 

'  *  Madam-oiselle  Dor-othea ! ' ' 

Dorothea  slipped  from  her  uncle's  lap.  "I 
know  what  that  means.  Whenever  she  says 
'Madam-ois-elle  Doro-thea!'  through  her  nose 
it's  a  German  prayer.  Good  night."  And  this 
time  she  was  gone. 

Laine  followed  her  to  the  steps  to  take  upon 
himself  the  responsibility  of  her  delay,  and  as 
he  came  back  in  the  room  he  glanced  at  the 
clock  and  took  out  his  watch.  It  wouldn't  do 
for  a  girl  from  the  country  to  get  into  New 
York  alone  at  this  time  of  night,  and,  of  course, 
he  would  have  to  meet  her;  but  why  did  shv. 
come  at  this  hour  of  night?  Ringing  for  his 
coat  and  hat,  he  put  them  on,  then  stopped  to 
light  a  cigar,  and  as  the  match  was  held  to  it 
the  front  door-bell  rang  sharply.  A  moment 
later  some  one  was  talking  to  Timkins. 

28 


DOROTHEA   AND   MR.   LAINE 

"Js  this  Mr.  Warrick's  residence?" 

The  voice  that  asked  the  question  was  fresh 
and  clear,  and  carried  easily  to  where  he  stood. 
He  looked  around  quickly  as  if  for  escape. 

"Yes'm."  He  could  picture  the  bow  Tim- 
kins  was  making.  Timkins  was  the  politest 
person  he  knew.  "Yes'm,  and  this  is  Miss 
Keith,  isn't  it?  Just  come  in,  ma'm,  we're 
expecting  of  you,  though  your  train  must  have 
been  a  little  earlier  than  usual,  ma'm.  Mr. 
Warrick  is  out  of  town,  and  Mrs.  Warrick  had 
a  pressing  engagement  which  couldn't  be 
denied,  but  she  left  messages  for  you,  and  I 
think  a  note.  Yes'm,  just  this  way."  And 
Timkins,  knowing  Laine  was  in  the  library,  led 
the  stranger  past  the  door  and  up  the  steps, 
over  the  banisters  of  which  was  heard  from 
Dorothea  a  cry  of  delight. 

"Oh,  my  Cousin  Claudia!  My  Cotisin  Claudia! 
I'm  so  glad  you've  come!  I'm  so  glad!" 

A  laugh  as  fresh  as  the  dawn  of  perfect  morn- 
ing followed  the  kisses  next  heard,  and  then  the 
new  voice  spoke  again. 

"You  precious  child!  I'm  so  glad  you're 
glad.  It's  so  nice  to  have  somebody  glad  to 
see  you!" 


V 


T  the  click  of  Laine's  latch-key  Moses 
started  from  the  doze  into  which  he 
had  fallen  and  jumped  to  his  feet. 
"Lord,  sir,  I  sure  is  glad  you've 
come,"  he  said,  following  Laine  into 
the  library.  "Gineral's  been  mighty 
bad  off  since  you  went  away,  and  one  time  I 
thought  he  was  plumb  gone.  He  done  had 
what  you  might  call  a  faintin'  fit  if 'n  he  was  a 
person." 

"Where  is  he?"  Laine's  voice  was  quick, 
and  his  eyes  swept  the  room.  "What  have 
you  done  for  him?" 

"He  laid  himself  on  the  rug  in  your  room, 
sir,  and  I  give  him  a  little  brandy  and  water. 
Most  in  general  that  will  hit  the  spot  and— 

But  Laine  was  in  his  room,  and  Moses,  fol- 
lowing, saw  him  on  his  knees  by  the  rug,  his 
right  arm  under  the  dog's  head,  his  left  on 

30 


THE   LOSS   OF   HIS    BEST    FRIEND 

the  heart  which  was  barely  beating,  and  softly 
he  tiptoed  out  again. 

For  an  hour  or  so  he  stayed  away,  wandering 
between  his  room  and  the  kitchen,  the  kitchen 
and  the  dining-room,  and  back  again  to  his 
room,  talking  to  himself  in  an  undertone;  and 
presently  he  sat  down  by  a  table  and  began 
to  turn  the  pages  of  a  family  Bible  which 
adorned  it,  and  which  he  had  presented  to  him- 
self the  Christmas  before. 

"It  do  beat  all  how  he  love  that  dog,"  he 
said,  as  if  to  some  one  at  his  side,  "and  it's 
a-goin'  to  make  a  hole  in  his  heart  when  he's 
gone.  I  never  seen  anybody  set  such  store 
on  a  thing  what  ain't  a  human  being  as  he  do 
on  Gineral,  and  as  for  Gineral — if  a  dog  could 
do  what  you  call  worship,  he  sure  do  worship 
Mr.  Laine.  They  was  partners,  them  two, 
and  it  will  be  a  quiet  place  when  Gineral  ain't 
here  any  more." 

Slowly  he  turned  page  after  page  of  the  big- 
printed  Bible,  with  its  illuminated  text;  but 
presently  he  closed  it.  "I've  read  right  much 
of  it,  and  I've  heard  a  heap  of  it  expounded, 
but  I  haven't  got  no  recollections  of  any  refer- 
ences to  the  passing  of  dogs  in  it,"  he  con- 
tinued, taking  out  a  plug  of  tobacco  and  cut- 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

ting  off  a  good-sized  piece.  "I  wish  there  was. 
When  something  you  love  is  leavin'  you,  you 
have  a  mighty  sinkin'  feeling  in  the  pit  of 
your  stomach,  and  a  terrible  understandin'  of 
the  unableness  of  man.  And  then  it  is  you 
feel  a  reachin'  out  after  something  what  ain't 
man.  Mr.  Laine  is  mighty  learned,  but  learn- 
in*  ain't  no  cure  for  loneliness,  and  Gineral  is 
all  he's  got.  And  I  tell  you  now,  this  comin' 
home  to  empty  rooms  is  cold  comin'." 

Moses  was  speaking  to  the  wall  opposite, 
but  the  wall  not  replying  he  got  up  and  tip- 
toed to  Laine 's  bedroom.  Looking  up,  Laine 
saw  him  and  called  him  in. 

"Go  to  bed,  Moses,"  he  said,  and  his  voice 
was  very  tired.  "There  is  nothing  you  can 
do.  If  I  need  you  I  will  let  you  know." 

Moses  shook  his  head.  "I  ain't  a-goin*  to 
bed,  Mr.  Laine.  You  can  make  me  go  out  if 
you  want  to,  but  if  I  ain't  intrudin'  I  would 
like  to  stay." 

Slowly  the  hours  passed.  From  the  street 
occasional  .stirrings  reached  them  faintly;  but 
in  the  room  only  short  breathing  broke  the 
silence.  As  day  dawned  Moses,  from  his  seat 
near  the  door,  spoke: 

"Mr.  Laine?'! 

32 


THE   LOSS  OF  HIS   BEST    FRIEND 

"Well."     Laine  did  not  look  up. 

"When  dogs  die  do  they  live  again?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"I  don't  reckon  anybody  knows.  But  that 
don't  mean  they  don't.  If  I  was  as  certain  I 
was  fixed  for  heaven  as  I  know  Gineral  is 
a-goin'  to  be  waitin'  for  you  somewhere,  I'd 
feel  more  reconcilement  to  death.  Some  things 
can  die  and  some  things  can't.  There  ain't 
no  time  limit  to  love,  Mr.  Laine.  I  think" — 
Moses  got  up — "I  think  Gineral  is  trying  to 
make  you  understand  something,  sir." 

Half  an  hour  later  Laine  called  Moses  back 
into  the  room,  gave  a  few  orders,  changed  his 
clothes,  and  without  waiting  for  breakfast 
went  out,  and  not  until  dark  did  he  come  in 
again. 

Dinner  was  a  pretense,  and  presently  he 
pushed  his  coffee  aside,  lighted  a  cigar,  and 
took  up  the  evening  paper.  The  headlines  were 
glaring,  but  he  passed  them  quickly.  Tele- 
graphic news  was  skimmed,  stock  reports  and 
weather  conditions  glimpsed  unheedingly,  and 
the  editorial  page  ignored,  and,  finally,  with  a 
gesture  of  weariness,  he  threw  the  paper  on  the 
floor  and  went  into  the  library. 

It  was,  as  Moses  had  said,  a  very  spacious 
33 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

room,  and  its  furnishings  were  distinctive ;  but, 
though  warm  and  brightly  lighted,  to  stay  in 
it  to-night  was  impossible,  and,  ringing  for  his 
coat  and  hat,  he  made  ready  to  go  out. 

At  the  table  he  lingered  a  moment  and 
glanced  at  some  letters  upon  it.  Mechanically 
he  took  one  up,  looked  at  the  writing  of  his 
name,  and  wondered  indifferently  who  it  was 
from.  Breaking  it  open,  he  read  the  few  words 
it  contained,  and  at  them  his  face  colored  and 
he  bit  his  lips  to  hide  their  twitching.  He 
read: 

DEAR  MR.  LAINE, — Dorothea  has  just  told  me.   I 
am  so  sorry.  CLAUDIA  KEITH. 

With  a  sudden  surrender  to  something  stub- 
bornly withheld,  he  sat  down  in  the  chair  near 
the  table,  leaned  back  in  it,  and  closed  his 
eyes  to  keep  back  that  which  stung  and  blinded 
them.  To  most  of  his  friends  the  going  of 
General  would  be  but  the  going  of  a  dog,  and 
barely  a  passing  thought  would  be  its  portion 
when  they  heard,  but  she  must  understand. 
He  got  up.  No.  There  was  no  one  who  could 
really  understand. 


VI 


A    LETTER   FROM   DOROTHEA 

OR  a  moment  he  hesitated  whether 
to  go  down  or  up  the  street.  The 
air  was  biting,  but  the  snow,  fairly 
well  cleaned  from  the  sidewalks,  no 
longer  bothered;  and,  crossing  into 
Madison  Avenue,  he  turned  down  and 
began  to  walk  rapidly  toward  that  part  of  the 
city  where  there  would  be  few  people  and  little 
glare,  and  as  he  walked  unconsciously  he  re- 
peated over  and  over  to  himself:  "Dorothea 
has  just  told  me.  I  am  so  sorry." 

"Mister,  please,  sir,  buy  a  paper?"  He 
stopped  abruptly.  The  boy  in  front  of  him 
stamped  first  one  foot  and  then  the  other,  and 
the  hand  he  held  out  was  rough  and  red. 
Drawing  it  back  he  blew  on  it  for  a  little 
warmth. 

"What  are  you  doing  out  this  time  of  night  ?" 
35 


THE    MAN    IN   LONELY    LAND 

Laine  asked  the  question  hardly  knowing  why. 
"You  ought  to  be  home  in  bed." 

"Ain't  got  no  home."  The  boy  laughed 
cheerfully,  and  again  put  his  fist  to  his  mouth 
and  blew  upon  it.  "I'm  sleepin'  with  another 
boy  this  week,  but  I  have  to  pay  him.  Please 
buy  a  paper,  Mister!" 

Under  his  breath  Laine  caught  himself  say- 
ing something,  then  handed  the  boy  a  piece  of 
money  and  passed  on.  Where  was  he,  anyhow  ? 
Surely  he  was  in  no  mood  for  the  life  of  this 
neighborhood.  It  was  one  he  had  seldom 
been  in,  and  as  he  looked  at  its  houses  dull 
wonder  filled  him  as  to  their  occupants.  To 
keep  breath  in  their  bodies  meant  sordid 
struggle  and  bitter  strife,  but  possibly  they 
were  happy.  Certainly  he  had  long  since 
learned  the  possession  of  mere  material  things 
did  not  mean  happiness.  He  had  long  since 
learned  a  great  many  things  it  was  unfortunate 
to  know. 

A  clock  in  the  church  near  by  struck  ten, 
and  turning  he  went  over  into  the  Avenue  and 
began  his  walk  up-town.  As  he  reached  Madi- 
son Square  he  looked  at  the  empty  benches  and 
wondered  as  to  the  fate  of  the  derelicts  who 
daily  filled  them  in  warm  weather,  and  won- 

36 


A   LETTER   FROM    DOROTHEA 

dered  if  they,  too,  wondered  what  it  was  all 
for — this  thing  called  life. 

In  contrast  to  the  traffic  of  the  day  the  still- 
ness of  the  Avenue  was  puzzling.  Only  the 
whir  of  an  automobile  or  the  occasional  hoof- 
beats  of  a  cab-horse  broke  the  silence,  and 
hardly  less  dark  than  the  tenements  just  passed 
were  its  handsome  houses,  with  their  closed 
shutters  and  drawn  curtains,  and  the  restless 
occupants  therein.  As  he  reached  the  Park 
he  stopped,  hesitated,  and  lighted  a  fresh 
cigar.  Three  squares  away  was  his  sister's 
house,  and  in  it  was  the  girl  with  the  fresh, 
clear  voice.  He  took  the  note  she  had  sent 
him  out  of  his  pocket,  and  in  the  light  hanging 
just  above  him  looked  again  at  the  firm,  clear 
writing,  then  put  it  back.  Did  she,  too,  won- 
der at  life,  at  its  emptiness  and  aimlessness  ? 
Her  voice  did  not  sound  as  if  she  were  tired  of 
it  or  found  it  wearisome.  It  sounded  like  a 
very  happy  voice. 

At  his  door  he  turned  the  latch-key,  and 
for  a  moment — a  bare  moment — drew  back; 
then,  with  a  shiver,  he  opened  the  door  and 
went  inside. 

Moses  was  waiting.  "Miss  Dorothea  she 
called  me  up,  sir,  and  told  me  to  be  sure  and 

37 


THE    MAN   IN   LONELY   LAND 

give  you  this  letter  to-night.  She  slip  out  of 
bed  to  telephone  when  that  French  white  lady 
was  out  the  room,  she  say.  She  had  her  Ma 
send  it  by  messenger,  and  she  was  so  'fraid 
you  wouldn't  get  it  to-night  she  couldn't  sleep. 
She  sent  a  peck  of  love." 

Laine  took  the  letter  and  went  to  his  room. 
Dorothea  was  given  to  letters,  and  if  his  ab- 
sence was  unduly  long  a  communication  to 
that  effect  was  promptly  received.  He  had 
seen  her  last  night,  however.  What  was  she 
wanting  now?  Breaking  the  seal,  he  read  the 
sprawly  writing  with  narrowed  eyes,  then  read 
again,  that  he  might  miss  no  word. 

DEAR  UNCLE  WINTHROP, — Moses  telefoned  us  and 
Channing  and  I  have  just  cried  and  cried  and  cried.  But 
I  won't  even  call  his  name  if  you  will  only  come  and  let 
me  kiss  you  so  you  will  know.  We  wanted  to  send  you 
some  flowers  but  Claudia  said  our  love  was  best.  She 
is  so  sorry  too.  She  had  one  and  it  died  last  spring.  I 
had  a  headake  to-day.  It  came  from  my  heart  because 
of  you  and  she  made  it  go  away.  I  think  she  could  make 
most  any  kind  of  pain  go  away.  And  her  hands  are  not 
red  and  her  hair  is  brown  and  her  lashes  are  brown  too, 
and  long  and  lovely.  I  don't  know  the  color  of  her 
eyes.  I  think  they  are  glad  color.  I  love  her!  I  knew 
I  would. 

Your  devoted  niece,      DOROTHEA. 

P.  S. — I  told  her  you  didn't  like  young  ladies  and  she 
said  she  didn't  like  old  gentlemen,  except  a  few.  Please, 

38 


A   LETTER    FROM    DOROTHEA 

P-L-E-A-S-E  come  and  see  me — and  you  can  come  in 
the  nursery  if  you  don't  want  to  see  her.    She  knows. 
Your  loving  niece, 

DOROTHEA. 

P.  S.  Again. — You  ought  to  hear  her  laugh.  Its 
delishus. 

He  put  the  letter  back  in  the  envelope,  and 
the  envelope  in  his  pocket.  "She  knows,"  he 
repeated.  What  under  heaven  had  Dorothea 
been  telling  her?  He  must  see  Dorothea  and 
have  it  stopped.  Did  she  think  him  a  feeble 
and  infirm  person  who  leaned  on  a  stick,  or  a 
crabbed  and  cross  one  who  had  no  manners? 
He  would  have  to  call,  if  only  to  thank  her 
for  her  note.  No.  He  would  do  that  in 
writing.  Next  week,  perhaps,  he  might  drop 
in  and  see  Dorothea.  But  Hope  and  Channing 
should  take  the  girl  about,  show  her  the  city. 
Certainly  Hope  could  not  be  so  idiotic  as  to 
let  clothes  matter.  In  his  sister's  world  clothes 
were  the  insignia  of  its  order,  and  of  late  Hope 
had  shown  signs  that  needed  nipping.  He 
must  see  Hope.  Next  week  would  be  time 
enough,  but  Hope  and  Dorothea  must  both  be 
seen. 


VII 

AN   AFTERNOON   CALL 


'H 


OW  do  you  do  ?  Oh,  how  do  you  do, 
too ,  Miss  Kei  th  ? "  Miss  Robin  French 
held  out  a  hand  first  to  Mrs.  Chan- 
ning  Warrick  and  then  to  her  guest 
and  shook  their  hands  with  vigor. 
"  Did  you  ever  know  such  weather 
at  this  season  of  the  year?  Even  heat  and  cold 
are  no  longer  like  they  used  to  be.  Everything 
is  intensified.  Indeed  I  will  have  some  tea! 
No  lemon,  and  one  lump.  One.  That's  a  sick- 
looking  fire,  Hope.  Good  gracious !  I  just  did 
catch  that  vase  of  flowers!  Such  a  stupid 
fancy,  putting  flowers  everywhere  for  people 
to  knock  over.  Well,  Miss  Keith,  have  you 
gotten  your  breath  since  you  reached  New 
York?  Something  of  a  town,  isn't  it?" 

A  gulp  of  hot  tea,  taken  standing  by  Miss 
French,  gave  pause  for  a  moment,  and  Claudia 
Keith  instinctively  drew  her  feet  up  under  her 

40 


AN   AFTERNOON   CALL 

chair  behind  the  tea-table.  To  duck  her  head, 
as  one  would  dodge  an  on-coming  deluge,  was 
an  impulse,  but  only  with  her  feet  could  effort 
be  made  for  self-preservation,  and  as  she  re- 
filled the  cup  held  out  to  her  by  the  breezy 
visitor  she  blessed  the  table  which  served  as  a 
breastwork  of  defense.  With  a  hasty  move- 
ment she  put  in  the  one  lump  and  handed  the 
cup  back.  "I  breathe  here  very  well,"  she 
said,  and  smiled  into  the  scrutinizing  eyes. 
"New  York  is  very  wonderful." 
'  "And  very  disagreeable  eight  months  out  of 
the  twelve."  Miss  French  put  her  cup  on  the 
table,  threw  her  fur  coat  on  the  chair  behind  her, 
sat  down,  and,  taking  the  cup  again,  drank  its 
entire  contents.  "Pretty  good  tea,  Hope;  at 
most  places  it's  undrinkable."  Again  she 
handed  the  cup  to  Claudia.  "One  more  and 
that's  all.  I'm  cutting  out  tea  a  bit — only 
twelve  cups  a  day  now." 

' '  Twelve ! ' '  The  exclamation  was  beyond  re- 
call. Claudia's  hand  stopped  in  its  pouring. 
"Twelve!" 

"That's  what  I  said.  Have  taken  thirty 
many  times,  but  the  doctor  thought  I  was  get- 
ting nerves  and  called  me  down.  Nerves!" 
Miss  French's  nose  went  up.  "Nerves  and 

4  41 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

nonsense  are  twin  sisters,  and  I've  no  opinion 
of  either.  How  did  you  like  the  opera  last 
night?" 

The  question  being  addressed  apparently  to 
the  cigarette  Miss  French  took  out  of  a  little 
silver  case,  lighted,  and  began  to  smoke,  neither 
Mrs.  Warrick  nor  Miss  Keith  answered,  each 
waiting  for  the  other;  but  it  did  not  matter, 
Miss  French  was  looking  at  a  photograph  in 
front  of  her.  With  lorgnette  to  her  eyes,  she 
examined  it  critically. 

"Rather  a  good  picture  of  your  brother, 
Hope.  Didn't  know  he'd  do  anything  so  human 
as  have  a  picture  taken."  She  took  it  up. 
"Winthrop  would  hardly  take  prizes  at  a 
beauty  show,  but  he's  certainly  all  there 
for  something  better.  When  did  you  get 
this?" 

"A  month  ago,  I  guess."  Mrs.  Warrick  took 
a  log  from  the  basket  on  the  hearth  and  put  it 
on  the  andirons.  "The  editors  of  the  Review 
made  him  send  his  picture  when  that  article 
of  his  came  out  on  'Tax  Terrors  and  Tax 
Traditions. '  Channing  says  it's  the  best  thing 
that's  been  written  on  taxation  for  years,  and 
in  banking  circles— 

"He's  earned  his  pedestal."  Miss  French 
42 


AN   AFTERNOON    CALL 

put  down  her  cigarette  and  handed  the  case  to 
Claudia. 

"Smoke?" 

Claudia  shook  her  head.  "Thanks.  I  don't — " 

"Pity.  You've  lots  to  learn  yet.  Most  of 
you  Southerners  have,  but  when  you  catch  up 
you  speed  all  right.  I'll  give  you  this  for  noth- 
ing— don't  toboggan  all  at  once.  Have  you 
seen  this  picture  of  Hope's  crank  of  a  brother? 
You  needn't  expect  to  meet  him.  He  comes  of 
good  Vermont  stock,  and  its  granite  is  no  firmer 
than  his  principles;  but  he  has  no  manners. 
I've  known  him  fifteen  years  and  am  qualified 
to  speak." 

' '  He  has  got  manners ! ' '  Mrs.  Warrick  turned 
indignantly  toward  Miss  French.  "Claudia 
only  got  here  Thursday  night,  and  Winthrop 
has  been  too  busy — " 

"Busy!  You're  dippy  about  Winthrop,  Hope. 
He's  the  most  indifferent  human  being  to  other 
human  beings  that  walks  this  earth,  and  has 
more  friends — men  friends — than  any  man 
I  know.  He's  rotten  spoiled;  that's  what's  the 
matter  with  him.  He's  been  chased,  I  admit. 
What  uncaught  man  of  means  isn't?  I've  no 
patience  with  Winthrop.  It's  natural  young 
girls  should  bore  him,  but  that's  no  rea- 

43 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

son  why  he  should  live  so  entirely  to  him- 
self." 

"Perhaps" — Claudia  took  up  a  letter  from 
the  table  in  front  of  her  and  with  it  tapped  her 
lips  absently — "perhaps  he  prefers  to  live  that 
way.  I  wonder,  Miss  French,  if  you  can  tell  me 
where  Kroonstater's  is?  No  one  here  seems  to 
know,  and  every  day  I  get  further  commissions 
from  my  county  which  can  only  be  filled  there. 
Years  ago  some  one  from  Brooke  Bank  bought 
wonderful  and  marvelous  Christmas  things  from 
Kroonstater's,  and  ever  since  it's  been  the  one 
store  in  New  York  for  many  of  our  people.  I 
must  find  it." 

"Kroonstater's?"  Miss  French  again  put 
up  her  lorgnette.  ' '  Never  heard  of  it. " 

Claudia  laughed.  "I  see  you,  too,  have 
something  to  learn.  You  don't  know  the  joy 
of  shopping  if  you  don't  know  a  store  of  that 
kind.  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  find  it  by  my- 
self." 

"For  goodness'  sake  don't,  Claudia."  Mrs. 
Warrick  got  up;  some  one  at  the  telephone 
wanted  her.  "I  passed  one  of  those  down- 
town stores  once,  and  the  crowd  in  it  was  some- 
thing awful.  You  never  know  what  kind  of 
disease  you  might  catch,  and  the  people  are  so 

44 


AN   AFTERNOON   CALL 

pushy.  All  the  nice  stores  have  Christmas 
things." 

"I  don't  doubt  it."  Claudia  smiled.  "But 
Brooke  Bank  people  have  ideas  of  their  own. 
Their  demands  are  many,  and  their  dollars  few. 
And,  then,  I  love  to  see  the  crowd.  Their 
pennies  are  as  important  as  our  pounds,  and  to 
watch  their  spending  is  the  best  kind  of  a  play." 

"Where  did  you  say  you  came  from?"  Miss 
French  surveyed  the  girl  in  front  of  her  with 
sudden  interest.  Something  new  under  the  sun 
was  ever  the  quest  of  her  inquiries  and  pursuits, 
and  as  if  she  had  possibly  found  it  she  looked 
closer  at  her  friend's  guest.  Not  the  youth,  not 
the  fair  skin  now  flushed  with  color  that  came 
and  went,  nor  the  long  dark  lashes,  nor  perfect 
teeth,  nor  anything  that  could  be  named  made 
the  girl  distinctive,  but  something  well-defined 
and  penetrating.  Again  she  asked  the  question. 
"Where  did  you  say  you  were  from?" 

' '  From  Virginia.    Have  you  ever  been  there  ? ' ' 

Miss  French  shook  her  head. 

Claudia  sat  up.  In  her  eyes  no  longer 
laughter,  and  incredulity  that  was  genuine. 
"You  mean  you  never  have  been  to  Virginia?" 

"Never." 

Elbows  on  the  table  and  chin  in  the  palms  of 
45 


THE   MAN   IN   LONELY   LAND 

her  hands,  Claudia  looked  at  Miss  French  as 
intently  as  Miss  French  looked  at  Claudia. 
"Then  you've  never  heard,  I  suppose,  of  the 
Northern  Neck,  or  Westmoreland  County,  or 
Essex,  or  Lancaster,  or  King  George,  or — " 

"Never.  Quite  English,  aren't  they?  Is 
that  where  you  live?" 

"I  live  in  Essex.  We're  on  the  Rappahan- 
nock.  There  isn't  a  railroad  in  the  county. 
We  have  to  take  the  boat  for  Fredericksburg  or 
Norfolk  to  get  anywhere,  unless  we  cross  the 
river  into  Westmoreland  County  and  drive  over 
to  the  Potomac  side  and  make  the  boat  to 
Washington.  Have  you  ever  been  to  Wash- 
ington?" 

"Of  course.  I've  been  pretty  well  over  the 
world." 

"And  left  out  its  best  part!"  Claudia 
laughed  and  got  up  to  turn  the  logs  which  were 
smoking.  "You  mustn't  die  before  seeing  it. 
There  isn't  so  much  to  see,  perhaps,  but  a 
good  deal  to  feel.  Do  you  like  fox-hunting?" 

1 '  Never  tried  it. "  Again  Miss  French  looked 
at  the  girl  now  standing  in  front  of  her.  She 
was  certainly  not  a  plate  of  fashion — that  is,  not 
a  French  plate — but  she  was  graceful,  and  her 
clothes  were  really  very  good.  Her  uncon- 

46 


AN   AFTERNOON   CALL 

sciousness  of  self  was  rather  astounding  in  a 
country  girl. 

"I  think  you'd  like  a  fox-hunt.  I  will  miss 
the  big  one  this  year — Thanksgiving  comes  so 
late,  and  Christmas  there's  no  time." 

"Christmas  in  the  country  must  be  very 
stupid." 

"Stupid!"  Claudia's  hands,  which  had  been 
clasped  behind  her  back,  opened  and  came  to- 
gether on  her  breast.  "Of  course" — her  eyes 
were  raised  to  Miss  French's — "it's  a  point  of 
view,  I  suppose.  We  don't  think  it's  stupid. 
We  love  it." 

Miss  French  got  up,  put  her  cigarette-case  in 
her  velvet  hand-bag,  slipped  on  her  coat, 
fastened  her  veil,  picked  up  her  muff,  shook  it, 
and  looked  toward  the  door,  between  whose 
curtains  Mrs.  Warrick  was  standing. 

"I  thought  you'd  gone  for  good,  Hope. 
You  must  have  been  telling  all  you  knew,  and 
more.  Miss  Keith  was  just  saying  she  loved 
Christmas  in  the  country.  I  can't  imagine 
anything  worse,  unless  it's  Christmas  in  town. 
I  hate  Christmas !  If  I  could  go  to  sleep  a  week 
before,  and  not  wake  up  until  a  week  after,  I'd 
surely  do  it.  Why,  Winthrop  Laine!" 

On  her  way  to  the  door  Miss  Robin  French 
47 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

stood  still  and  looked  at  the  man  coming  in ;  and 
over  her  ruddy  face  swept  color,  almost  purple 
in  its  deepness.  She  was  a  handsome  woman, 
stubbornly  resisting  the  work  of  time.  In  her 
eyes  was  restless  seeking,  in  her  movements  an 
energy  that  could  not  be  exercised  in  the  limits 
of  her  little  world ;  and  Claudia,  watching  her, 
felt  sudden  whimsical  sympathy.  She  was  so 
big,  so  lordly,  so  hungrily  unhappy. 

She  held  out  her  hand.  "How  do  you  do?" 
she  said.  "I  am  just  going  home,  as  your 
sister  hasn't  asked  me  to  dinner.  I  suppose 
you  will  stay — " 

"If  there's  to  be  any  dinner.  Hope  has  a 
way -of  cutting  it  out  every  now  and  then." 
He  turned  to  his  sister.  "Are  you  going  out 
to-night?" 

"I  certainly  am  not,  and  I'm  so  glad  you've 
come!  I've  lots  to  tell  you  and  ask  you. 
Won't  you  stay,  Robin?"  The  question  was 
put  feebly.  ' '  Do  stay.  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon, 
Claudia,  you  were  so  far  off !  You  haven't  met 
my  brother.  Winthrop,  this  is  Channing's 
cousin,  Miss  Keith.  Please  give  him  some  tea, 
Claudia.  I  know  he's  frozen.  Can't  you  stay, 
Robin— really?" 

1 '  Really  nothing !  Good-bye. ' '  Miss  French 
48 


AN   AFTERNOON   CALL 

waved  her  muff  to  the  man  who,  over  the  tea- 
cups, was  shaking  hands  with  the  girl  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  table,  and  shook  her  head 
as  he  started  toward  her.  "Don't  come,  Jen- 
kins is  out  there  with  the  car.  I'd  stay  to 
dinner,  but  Hope  doesn't  enjoy  hers  if  there's  a 
high-neck  dress  at  the  table.  Good-bye,  Miss 
Keith;  see  you  to-morrow  night,  I  suppose." 
And,  like  a  good  strong  draught  that  passes,  she 
was  gone. 

"I'm  glad  she  had  sense  enough  not  to  stay." 
Mrs.  Warrick  came  toward  the  tea-table.  "I'm 
fond  of  Robin,  but  of  late  she's  been  even  more 
energetic  and  emphatic  than  usual,  and  I  feel 
like  I'm  being  battledored  and  shuttlecocked 
whenever  I  see  her.  Why  don't  you  drink  your 
tea,  Winthrop?" 

"I  don't  believe  I  put  any  sugar  in  it.  I  beg 
your  pardon!"  Claudia  took  up  the  sugar- 
bowl.  "It  was  Miss  French,  I  guess.  She's 
such  a — such  a  gusty  person.  I  love  to  hear 
her  talk.  How  many,  Mr.  Laine?" 

"Three,  please,  and  no  comments,  Hope. 
If  a  man  must  drink  tea  he  ought  to  have  all  the 
sugar  he  wants.  That  last  lump  was  so  very  little 
I  think  you  might  put  in  another,  Miss  Keith. 
Thank  you.  Perhaps  this  is  sweet  enough." 

49 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

"Winthrop  just  takes  tea  to  have  the  sugar. 
He's  as  bad  as  Dorothea  about  sweet  things." 
Mrs.  Warrick  turned  to  her  brother.  "Are  you 
really  going  to  stay  to  dinner?  Please  do. 
This  is  the  only  evening  we're  to  be  home  for  a 
week,  and  Channing  is  anxious  to  see  you  on 
some  business." 

"Is  he?"  Laine  put  down  his  cup.  "Well, 
he  won't  see  me  on  business  to-night.  I've  an 
office  down-town.  In  your  part  of  the  world, 
Miss  Keith,  don't  you  ever  let  men  have  a 
chance  to  forget  there's  such  a  thing  as  busi- 
ness?" 

Claudia  got  up.  "I'm  afraid  they  have  too 
much  chance."  She  put  her  hand  lightly  on 
Mrs.  Warrick's  arm.  "Will  you  excuse  me, 
Hope?  I  have  a  letter  to  write."  She  bowed 
slightly  in  Laine's  direction  and  was  gone  before 
he  could  reach  the  door  to  draw  aside  the 
curtains  for  her. 

Mrs.  Warrick  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and 
crossed  her  arms.  "Do  sit  down,  Winthrop, 
and  let's  talk.  I'm  so  glad  to  have  a  little  time 
alone  with  you.  I  so  seldom  have  it  that — 

"Your  guest  was  certainly  not  slow  in  giving 
it  to  you.  She  could  hardly  do  anything  but 
leave  after  your  insistence  upon  having  things 

So 


AN   AFTERNOON   CALL 

to  tell  me.  What  in  the  name  of  Heaven  did 
you  do  that  for?  Does  she  think  we  don't 
know  how  to  behave  up  here?" 

"Oh,  she  understands!  She  knows  you 
didn't  come  to  see  her,  and,  besides,  she's  gone 
up-stairs  to  write  to  her  mother.  If  King 
George  had  been  here  she'd  have  gone.  You 
know,  I  really  dreaded  her  coming,  but  I 
needn't.  She  has  been  to  a  good  many  places- 
was  abroad  for  a  year  with  one  of  her  sisters 
whose  husband  was  secretary  or  something  to 
one  of  our  ministers  or  somebody — but  she 
doesn't  know  New  York  at  all.  She's  met  a 
number  of  her  friend's  friends  already,  and  I 
won't  have  to  scoop  up  men  for  her.  Last 
night  at  the  Van  Doren's  she  had  more  around 
her  than  she  could  talk  to.  Always  has  had, 
Channing  says.  She'll  be  no  bother;  and  don't 
stay  away  because  she's  here.  Tell  me" — 
she  put  her  hand  on  his  knee — "is  it  true  you 
are  going  to  Panama  next  month?  Robin 
French  told  me  she  heard  you  would  leave  on 
the  twelfth." 

"If  Miss  French  could  sell  fairy  tales  as 
rapidly  as  she  can  repeat  them  she'd  make  a 
fortune.  I  have  no  idea  what  I  am  going  to  do 
next  month." 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

"I  wish  I  didn't  know  I  was  going  to  Savan- 
nah for  Christmas.  It's  Channing's  year,  and 
of  course  we  ought  to  go  to  his  mother,  as  she 
is  too  old  to  come  to  us,  but  there's  so  much 
going  on,  and  then  you'll  be  alone." 

"Oh,  I'll  manage  all  right.  The  one  good 
thing  about  Christmas  is  it  doesn't  last  long." 
He  leaned  forward  and  with  the  tongs  turned 
a  smoldering  log.  "But  it's  incomprehensible 
how  a  woman  with  a  home  can  keep  up  this 
everlasting  going  to  other  people's  houses. 
To-morrow  night  you  go — " 

"To  the  Taillors.  Mrs.  Taillor's  debu- 
tante daughter  makes  her  first  bow  to — " 

"Capitalized  society,  does  she?  Poor  child! 
The  pains  of  pleasure  are  many." 

"They  surely  are!  She  looks  like  a  scared 
rabbit,  and  I  heard  her  say  only  a  week  ago 
she'd  rather  die  than  be  a  debutante.  But 
shell  get  on.  Her  mother  will  corral  the  men 
and  compel  them  to  come  in  and  pay  her 
attention.  Are  you  going?" 

"Hardly."  Laine  looked  at  his  watch.  "What 
time  do  you  have  dinner?" 

"Seven.  It's  time  for  me  to  dress."  Mrs. 
Warrick  got  up.  .  "Do  pray  be  decent  and  go 
to-morrow  night,  Winthrop.  Mr.  Taillor  has 

52 


AN   AFTERNOCXN   CALL 

been  such  a  good  friend,  and  Mrs.  Taillor  will 
be  so  pleased.  Don't  forget  to  send  the  child 
flowers.  I  wonder  if  Claudia  is  ready.  Doro- 
thea grabs  her  every  chance  she  gets,  and  I 
don't  doubt  she's  with  the  children  this  minute. 
She'll  stay  until  dinner  is  served,  so  don't 
worry;  and  for  goodness'  sake  don't  let  her 
being  here  keep  you  away." 


VIII 


THE   RECEPTION 

OMING  down  the  crowded  steps  into 
the  crowded  drawing-room,  Winthrop 
Laine  slowly  made  his  way  through 
the  door  to  the  place  where  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Taillor  and  their  daughter  were 
receiving  their  guests  and  passing 
them  on  with  a  rapidity  that  would  have  been 
creditable  to  the  custodian  of  a  game  of  human 
roulette,  and  as  he  reached  them  his  name  was 
called  with  uncomfortable  clearness. 

"Well,  this  is  a  surprise!"  Both  of  Mrs. 
Taillor's  hands  held  Laine's.  "But  commend 
me  to  a  person  who  knows  when  to  change  his 
mind.  Jessica,  you  should  feel  honored.  Aw- 
fully good  of  you  to  come!  How  do  you  do, 
Mrs.  Haislip?"  And  Laine,  too,  was  passed 
on,  and  a  moment  later  found  himself  in  a 
corner  where  he  could  watch  the  door  and  all 
who  came  in. 

54 


THE    RECEPTION 

What  was  he  here  for?  He  didn't  know. 
The  air  was  heavy  with  perfume.  In  the  dis- 
tance music  reached  him  faintly,  and  the  throb 
and  stir  and  color  and  glow  for  some  minutes 
interested  him  as  he  glanced  around  the  hand- 
some room  with  its  massed  palms,  its  wealth 
of  flowers,  its  brilliant  lights,  and  streams  of 
gorgeously  gowned  women  and  prosperous- 
looking  men,  and  then  he  wondered  what  had 
made  him  start  anything  of  this  sort  again. 
To  come  had  been  a  sudden  decision.  Long 
ago  the  dreariness  of  functions  such  as  these 
had  caused  their  giving-up,  but  a  fancy  to  look 
once  more  upon  one  had  possessed  him  un- 
accountably, and  he  had  come. 

Up-stairs  in  the  men's  room  his  reappearance 
had  been  banteringly  commented  on,  and  with 
good-natured  hand-shaking  he  had  been  wel- 
comed back;  but  down  here  many  faces  were 
strange  and  figures  unrecognizable;  and  with 
something  of  shock  he  realized  how  few  were 
the  years  necessary  to  change  the  personnel 
of  any^division  of  humanity.  The  heat  was 
intense,  and  moving  farther  back  toward  a 
screen  of  palms  near  a  half-open  window,  he 
pulled  one  slightly  forward  that  he  might  see 
and  not  be  seen,  and  again  watched  each  new- 

SS 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY   LAND 

comer  with  mild  speculation  as  to  whether  he 
or  she  were  known  or  not. 

For  a  while  it  was  puzzling,  this  continuing 
arrival  of  new  faces,  with  here  and  there  one  he 
knew  well  or  slightly;  but  gradually  its  effect 
chilled,  and  he  was  wondering  if  he  could  get 
away  when  he  heard  his  name  called. 

"Winthrop  Laine!  Of  all  people!"  Miss 
French  held  out  her  hand.  "From  what  loop- 
hole were  you  watching  this  passing  show  for 
man's  derision  given?  May  I  come  in?" 

"You  may." 

Miss  French  moved  behind  the  palms  and 
pushed  a  tall  leaf  aside.  "You  and  I  are  too 
old  for  these  things,  Winthrop.  I  don't  know 
why  I  come — to  get  away  from  myself,  I  sup- 
pose. Look  at  that  Miss  Cantrell!  She  pa- 
rades her  bones  as  if  they  were  a  private  col- 
lection of  which  she  was  proud!  And  did  you 
ever  see  anything  as  hideous  as  that  gown  Miss 
Gavins  has  on?  Paris  green  couldn't  be  more 
deadly.  I  heard  Mathilda  Hickman  tell  her 
just  now  to  be  sure  and  wear  it  to  her  dinner 
next  week,  it  was  so  becoming ;  and  only  yester- 
day she  was  shrieking  over  it  at  a  luncheon 
where  everybody  was  talking  about  it.  Mr. 
Trehan  is  to  be  at  the  dinner,  and  Mathilda 

56 


THE    RECEPTION 

wants  every  woman  to  look  her  worst.  Hello! 
There  comes  Channing  and  Hope  and  the 
cousin  from  the  country.  Rather  a  nice  sort 
of  person,  awfully  young  and  inexperienced, 
but — "  She  put  up  her  lorgnette.  "They  are 
talking  to  Miss  Cantrell.  Miss  Keith  is  not 
becoming  to  Miss  Cantrell,  or  Miss  Gavins, 
either.  Her  shoulders  are  excellent  and  her 
head  perfectly  poised.  That  white  dress  suits 
her.  Have  you  been  in  the  dining-room?" 

Laine  came  from  behind  the  palms.  "No; 
I  was  to  wait  for  Hope.  Awfully  glad  to  have 
seen  you,  Robin.  A  stranger  in  a  strange  land 
has  a  chance,  but  a  man  who  has  lost  his  place 
hasn't.  People  have  a  way  of  closing  up  if  you 
lose  step,  and  I" — he  laughed — "I  lost  step 
long  ago.  I'll  see  you  again."  And,  watching, 
Miss  French  saw  him  take  possession  of  Miss 
Keith  and  go  with  her  out  of  the  room. 

Half  an  hour  later  Laine  found  a  chair  for 
Claudia  at  the  end  of  the  hall  opposite  the 
dining-room,  and  as  she  sat  down  he  wiped  his 
forehead.  "I  used  to  play  football,  but — " 

"You're  out  of  practice?  I  don't  believe 
you  did  take  more  than  three  men  by  the 
shoulders  and  put  them  aside.  I  don't  under- 
stand football  very  well,  but  a  dining-room 

5  57 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

seems  to  be  the  center-rush.  Please  look  at 
that  crowd  over  there!"  She  nodded  toward 
the  open  door,  through  which  a  mass  of  men 
could  be  seen  struggling.  "Isn't  it  queer — 
the  eagerness  with  which  a  plate  of  salad  is 
pursued?" 

"And  the  earnestness  with  which  it  is  de- 
voured." Laine  put  his  handkerchief  in  his 
pocket.  Will  you  wait  here  a  moment  until 
I  can  get  you  something?  I'll  be  back— 

"Indeed  I  won't."  Claudia  stood  up.  "It's 
fun  to  watch,  but  only  fruit  from  the  tree  of 
life  would  be  worth  a  scrimmage  of  that  kind. 
If  I  could  get  on  top  of  a  picture-frame  or  a 
curtain-pole,  or  anything  from  which  I  could 
look  down  on  a  show  like  this,  I'd  have  a 
beautiful  time,  but" — she  opened  her  fan — 
"it's  rather  stuffy  to  be  in  it." 

Laine  glanced  around.  He  knew  the  house 
well.  Next  to  the  library,  but  not  opening 
into  it,  was  a  small  room  of  Taillor's  which 
could  only  be  reached  by  a  narrow  passage  at 
their  right.  He  walked  away  and  looked  in 
at  the  door.  The  room  was  empty. 

"I  think  it  will  be  more  comfortable  over 
there,"  he  said,  coming  back,  then  saw  she  was 
talking  to  a  man  he  had  long  known  and  long 

58 


THE    RECEPTION 

disliked.  He  stopped  a  servant  who  was  pass- 
ing, a  man  who  had  once  been  in  the  employ 
of  one  of  his  clubs.  "Bring  some  stuff  over 
here  and  be  quick,  will  you,  David?"  he  said, 
then  spoke  to  the  man  talking  to  Miss  Keith. 

His  greeting  to  Dudley  was  not  cordial.  It 
was  with  difficulty  indeed  that  he  did  not  take 
Claudia  away  at  once.  Dudley  was  not  the 
sort  of  man  for  her  to  have  anything  to  do 
with.  In  a  time  incredibly  short,  but  to  Laine 
irritatingly  long,  David  was  back,  abundantly 
supplied ;  and  with  a  nod  he  was  directed  to  the 
room  at  the  end  of  the  narrow  hall,  and  Laine 
turned  to  the  girl  at  his  side.  "Are  you  ready  ?" 

"Good  night."  Miss  Keith  held  out  her 
hand.  "Bettina  sent  you  many  messages." 

"I'm  coming  to  get  them — may  I?"  Mr. 
Dudley's  eyes  were  frankly  eager.  "But  where 
are  you  going?  Laine  always  was  a  monopo- 
list. What  are  you  doing  at  a  thing  of  this 
kind,  anyhow,  Laine?  Don't  pay  any  atten- 
tion to  him,  Miss  Keith.  He's  mere  facts  and 
figures,  and  the  froth  of  life  is  not  in  him.  I'm 
much  better  company." 

The  last  words  were  lost  in  the  push  of  new 
arrivals,  and  quickly  Laine  led  the  way  to  the 
room  where  David  was  waiting.  Through  the 

59 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

open  door  the  sound  of  music  reached  them 
faintly  over  the  shrill  rise  and  fall  of  many 
voices;  and  as  Claudia  sat  down  near  the  table 
on  which  various  plates  had  been  placed  she 
put  her  hands  to  the  sides  of  her  face  and, 
laughing,  drew  them  away. 

"Did  you  ever  put  a  cockle-shell  to  your  ear 
and  notice  its  roar?"  she  asked.  "That's  how 
a  Tea  sounds  when  there're  only  women  at  it. 
When  there're  men  it's  more  so.  What  is  this  ?" 
She  held  her  fork  suspended  for  a  moment. 
"It's  awfully  good,  but  very  elusive.  What 
do  you  suppose  it  is?" 

"A  bunch  of  guesses  wouldn't  hit  it.  Clicot 
is  providing  the  provender,  I  believe;  I  see 
his  men  here,  and  the  ambition  of  Clicot's  life 
is  to  create  a  new  dish.  I'm  glad  you  like  it. 
It's  as  near  nothing  as  anything  I  ever  ate. 
Are  you  comfortable?  Is  that  chair  all  right?" 

Claudia  nodded.  "Why  don't  you  sit  down? 
I'm  sorry  we  can't  see  the  people,  but  it's  nice 
to  be  out  of  the  crowd."  She  looked  around 
the  room.  "This  is  a  very  handsome  house. 
I  never  saw  more  gorgeous  flowers,  and  to- 
morrow," she  gave  a  queer  little  sigh,  "to- 
morrow it  will  all  be  over — and  the  flowers 
faded." 


THE    RECEPTION 

"Faded  things  are  the  penalties  of  wealth. 
It's  the  one  compensation  for  follies  of  this 
sort  that  they  are  soon  over." 

' '  I  don't  think  they  are  always  follies.  When 
I  was  young — 

He  looked  down  at  her,  in  his  eyes  a  quiet 
gleam.  "When  you  were  what?" 

"Young.  Really  young,  I  mean.  I  had  my 
party  when  I  was  eighteen.  I  remember  it 
just  as  well."  She  gave  a  happy  little  laugh. 
"But  of  course  we  change  with  time.  My 
sister  says  I  am  developing  a  dreadful  disease. 
It's  a  tendency.  Did  you  ever  have  it?" 
-  "A  what?" 

"A  tendency — to  think  and  wonder  and  ask 
questions,  you  know.  She  says  people  who 
have  it  are  very  trying.  But  how  can  you  help 
a  thing  you're  born  with?"  She  leaned  for- 
ward, pushed  the  plates  aside,  and  folded  her 
arms  on  the  table.  "I  always  wondered  about 
things,  but  I  didn't  entirely  wake  up  until  I 
was  over  twenty.  I  don't  blame  people  for 
having  things  like  this" — she  waved  her  hands 
inclusively — "that  is,  if  they  like  this  kind  of 
thing."  She  looked  up  at  him  "We're  just 
like  children.  All  of  us  love  to  splurge  every 
now  and  then.  Don't  we?" 

61 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

"It  looks  that  way.  Splurge  has  a  variety 
of  forms. ' '  Laine  leaned  forward,  hands 
clasped  loosely  between  his  knees.  "But  the 
tendency — is  it  catching?" 

She  laughed.  "In  the  country  it  is.  I  live 
in  the  country,  but  it  didn't  develop  in  me  until 
I  had  several  winters  in  the  city.  I  used  to 
love  things  like  this.  I  didn't  know  much 
about  a  good  many  other  things,  and  it  was 
when  I  found  out  that  I  began  to  look  at 
people  and  wonder  if  they  knew,  and  cared, 
and  what  they  were  doing  with  it — their  life  I 
mean,  their  chance,  their  time,  their  money. 
One  winter  it  got  so  bad  Lettice  sent  me  home. 
Lettice  lives  in  Washington;  she's  my  second 
sister.  My  oldest  sister  is  a  widow,  and  is 
still  in  London,  where  her  husband  died  two 
years  ago.  I  kept  looking  for  glad  faces  and 
real,  sure-enough  happiness ;  and  so  many  people 
looked  bored  and  bothered  and  tired  that  I 
couldn't  understand — and  Lettice  made  me  go 
home.  Her  husband  is  in  Congress,  and  she 
said  I  wanted  to  know  too  much." 

"Have  you  yet  found  what  you  were  looking 
for?"  Laine  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand. 

"Yes."  She  laughed  lightly  and  got  up. 
62 


THE    RECEPTION 

"You  can  find  anything,  I  guess,  if  you  look 
for  it  right.  And  in  such  unexpected  places 
you  find  things!"  She  stopped  and  listened. 
"I  believe  people  are  going  home.  Please  take 
me  to  Hope.  I  can't  imagine  what  made  us 
stay  in  here  so  long!" 


IX 


A 


DOROTHEA   ASKS   QUESTIONS 

T  the  library  window  Dorothea  drew 
the  curtains  aside  and  looked  up  and 
down  the  street.  Presently  she  blew 
softly  upon  the  pane  and  with  her 
finger  made  on  it  four  large  letters, 
then  rubbed  them  out  and  went  back  to 
the  mantel,  before  whose  mirror,  on  tiptoe,  she 
surveyed  the  bow  on  her  hair  and  straightened 
it  with  care. 

"I  don't  see  why  they  don't  come,"  she  said, 
aggrievedly,  smoothing  down  her  skirt.  "It's 
time,  and  I'm  going  to  ring  for  tea,  anyhow. 
Mother  said  I  could  pour  it,  and  I'll  play  lady 
all  by  myself  if  nobody  comes  to  play  it  with. 
I  believe" — she  turned  her  head — "I  believe 
they're  coming  now." 

Again  she  went  to  the  window,  then  rang  for 
tea.  "Quick,  Timkins;  please  hurry  and  bring 
it  in  before  they  come,"  she  said.  „"  They'll  be 

64 


DOROTHEA    ASKS    QUESTIONS 

frozen."  And  as  Timkins  disappeared  she  put 
a  fresh  log  on  the  fire,  drew  the  table  closer  to  it, 
and  seated  herself  at  it. 

" I'm  a  chaperone  lady.  I'm  chaperoning  my 
Uncle  Winthrop  and  my  Cousin  Claudia!" 
In  gleeful  delight  she  rocked  backward  and 
forward  and  twisted  her  hands  together  tight- 
ly. "I'm  sorry  mother  has  a  headache,  but 
I  certainly  am  glad  I  can  pour  tea  for  them. 
I  don't  know  why  anybody  wants  to  go  horse- 
back-riding on  a  day  like  this,  though;  I'd 
freeze."  She  straightened  the  embroidered 
cloth  on  the  table  as  Timkins  put  the  tray  on 
it,  and  lighted  the  lamp  under  the  kettle,  and, 
taking  up  the  tea-caddy,  she  measured  out  a 
generous  amount  of  its  contents. 

"I'll  be  careful  and  not  get  burnt  up."  She 
waved  Timkins  out.  "They're  coming  right 
in.  It's  the  funniest  thing  about  Uncle  Win- 
throp," she  went  on,  as  if  to  the  tea-cups  she 
was  arranging.  "He  didn't  want  to  come  and 
see  Cousin  Claudia,  and  now  he  comes  here 
every  day.  Wouldn't  it  be  funny  if  he  wanted 
her  for  a  sweetheart  —  and  wouldn't  it  be 
grand!"  Her  arms  were  thrown  out  and  then 
hugged  rapturously  to  her  bosom;  but  in- 
stantly her  face  sobered.  "He  can't  have  her, 

65 


THE   MAN    IN   LONELY   LAND 

though,  because  she's  somebody  else's.  I  won- 
der if  he  knows  ?  He  ought  to,  for  Miss  Robin 
says  when  he  wants  anything  he  never  gives 
up  until  he  gets  it,  and  he  can't  get  her  if  she's 
gotten.  Mother  says  he  just  comes  here  and 
takes  her  out  and  sends  her  flowers  and  things 
because  she  asked  him  to  be  nice  to  her;  but 
I  don't  believe  it's  just  for  kindness.  Gentle- 
men aren't  kind  to  ladies  if  they  don't  like 
them.  I  believe—  Heigho,  Cousin  Claudia!" 
She  waved  her  hand  from  behind  the  table. 
"Have  you  had  a  nice  ride?  Where's  Uncle 
Winthrop?" 

"Coming." 

Drawing  off  his  gloves,  Laine  came  in  the 
library,  and  as  he  reached  the  table  he  took 
from  Dorothea's  hands  the  cup  of  tea  just 
poured  and  handed  it  to  Claudia. 

"Are  you  frozen?"  His  voice  was  slightly 
worried.  "We  shouldn't  have  gone — I  did 
not  know  how  very  cold  it  was." 

"It  wasn't  a  bit  too  cold.  I  love  it."  Clau- 
dia shook  her  head.  "I  don't  want  any  tea 
until  my  hands  can  hold  the  cup,  though. 
They  are  cold."  With  her  foot  on  the  fender, 
she  held  out  first  one  hand  and  then  the  other 
to  the  blazing  fire  and  laughed  in  Dorothea's 

66 


DOROTHEA    ASKS    QUESTIONS 

wide-opened  eyes.     "What  is  it,  Madam  Host- 
ess?    Is  anything  the  matter  with  me?" 

"Your  cheeks  look  like  they're  painted. 
They  didn't  when  you  went  out." 

"Do  they?"  Claudia  put  her  hands  to  her 
face.  "The  wind  did  it."  Taking  off  her 
hat,  she  laid  it  on  the  table,  loosened  the  hair 
on  her  temples,  and  sat  down  on  the  tapestried 
footstool  near  the  hearth.  "I'll  have  some 
tea  now,  please.  Are  there  any  sandwiches? 
I'm  starving.  Where's  your  mother,  Doro- 
thea?" 

"Sick.  Got  a  headache.  I'm  to  pour  tea, 
unless  you'd  rather."  She  got  up  reluctantly. 
"Would  you?" 

"Indeed  I  wouldn't."  Claudia  waved  her 
back.  "You  suit  that  table  beautifully.  When 
you're  a  real  grown-up  lady  you  won't  leave 
out  anything;  but  this  time  you  forgot  the 
sugar." 

"Did  I?  I  was  thinking  of  something  else, 
I  guess."  Two  lumps  were  put  in  the  cup 
Laine  handed  her.  "Where  did  you  all  go 
this  afternoon?" 

Claudia  looked  at  Laine.  "I  don't  know 
the  names  of  the  places  around  here.  Where 
did  we  go?" 

67 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY   LAND 

"We  went—  Laine  put  his  cup  on  the 
table  and,  drawing  a  chair  closer  to  the  fire, 
sat  down.  "I've  forgotten  the  name  of  the 
road." 

"Forgotten!"  Dorothea  stopped  the  rat- 
tling of  the  spoons.  "You  told  me  once  you 
knew  all  the  roads  within  twenty  miles  of 
New  York  in  the  pitch-dark.  I  think  it's  very 
funny  you  don't  know  where  you've  been. 
You  couldn't  have  been  looking  much." 

"We  didn't  look  at  all.  It  was  too  cold — " 
Laine  put  another  log  on  the  fire — "the  roads 
were  frozen,  and  to  keep  the  horses  from  slip- 
ping was  all  we  could  attend  to." 

"Couldn't  you  talk?" 

"Not  a  great  deal.  Miss  Keith  insists  upon 
keeping  her  horse  ahead  of  mine.  It  is  snow- 
ing! Did  you  know  it?" 

Dorothea  jumped  up  and  ran  to  the  window. 
"It  wasn't  just  now  when  I  looked  out.  Yes, 
it  is."  She  peered  through  the  pane,  pressing 
her  nose  close  to  it.  "It  hasn't  snowed  since 
that  first  week  you  came,  Cousin  Claudia,  and 
that's  nearly  a  month  ago.  I  hope  it  will 
snow  fifty  feet  deep,  so  the  cars  can't  run,  and 
that  the  river  will  freeze  so  the  boats  can't 
go  down  it,  and  then  you  will  have  to  stay; 

68 


DOROTHEA    ASKS    QUESTIONS 

and  so  would  we,  and  we  could  all  be  to- 
gether Christmas.  Don't  you  wish  so,  too, 
Uncle  Winthrop?"  She  came  back  and  leaned 
against  her  uncle's  chair.  "Did  you  know 
Cousin  Claudia  was  going  home  next  week?" 

"She  told  me  so  this  afternoon." 

"I  certainly  am."  Elbows  on  her  knees  and 
chin  in  her  hands,  Claudia  looked  straight  into 
the  fire.  "If  your  wish  comes  true,  Dorothea, 
I'll  get  an  air-ship.  I  expected  to  stay  three 
weeks,  and  will  have  stayed  five  before  I  get 
back.  I  ought  to  be  home  this  minute." 

"I  don't  think  five  weeks  is  long.  I  think 
it's  very  short."  Dorothea  took  a  seat  on  a 
stool  at  her  uncle's  feet,  and  looked  up  in  his 
face.  "Father  says  he  thinks  it's  downright 
mean  in  her  to  go  before  we  do.  Don't  you 
think  she  might  stay,  Uncle  Winthrop?" 

"I  do."  Laine  changed  his  position  and 
looked  away  from  Dorothea's  eyes.  "Is  there 
nothing  we  can  do  to  make  her  change  her 
mind?" 

"Is  there?"  Dorothea  turned  to  Claudia. 
"I  think  you  ought  to,  for  mother  says  Uncle 
Winthrop  is  just  beginning  to  act  like  a  Chris- 
tian in  coming  to  see  her  regularly,  and  when 
you  go  he  might  stop  acting  that  way.  Are 

69 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

you  going  to  stay  to  dinner  to-night?"  She 
took  Laine's  hand  and  intertwined  her  fingers 
in  his.  "Please  do." 

"In  these  clothes?" 

Dorothea  hesitated.  "Mother  wouldn't  like 
them,  but —  She  jumped  up  and  clapped 
her  hands  in  excited  delight.  "Mother's  got 
a  headache  and  isn't  coming  down  to-night, 
and  if  you  will  stay  I  think  she  will  let  me  take 
dinner  with  you.  I  hate  foolishness  about 
clothes,  and  these  are  the  becomingest  ones 
you  wear;  and,  besides,  at  the  Hunt  Club  you 
eat  in  them,  and  why  can't  you  do  it  here 
just  once?  Wouldn't  it  be  magnificent  if  I 
could  sit  up?"  Dorothea  whirled  round  and 
round.  "Father  is  out  of  town,  and  Channing 
has  a  tiny  bit  of  cold  and  can't  leave  his  room, 
and  I'm  so  lonesome.  Oh,  please,  Uncle  Win- 
throp,  please  stay!" 

"Ask  Miss  Keith  if  I  can  stay.  She  may 
have  other  engagements." 

"Have  you?"  Dorothea  was  on  her  knees 
by  Claudia,  hands  on  her  shoulders.  "And 
may  he  stay?  You  won't  have  to  change  your 
clothes,  either.  You  look  precious  in  those 
riding  things,  and,  when  you  take  the  coat  off, 
anybody  who  didn't  know  would  think  you 

70 


DOROTHEA   ASKS    QUESTIONS 

were  a  little  girl,  the  skirt  is  so  short  and 
skimpy;  and  your  hair  with  a  bow  in  the 
back  looks  like  me.  Can't  he  stay,  Cousin 
Claudia?" 

"If  he  wants  to,  of  course.  I'm  sorry  your 
mother  is  sick.  She  didn't  tell  me  at  lunch." 

"It's  just  a  headache,  and  as  father  is  away 
and  there  was  nothing  to  go  to,  I  think  she 
thought  she'd  take  a  rest  and  read  something. 
Are  you  going  out  to-night?" 

Claudia  got  up.  "No,  I'm  not  going  out; 
but  I  have  a  letter  to  write.  Will  you  stay  to 
dinner,  Mr.  Laine?" 

"I  will.  Thank  you  very  much,  Miss  War- 
rick.  The  invitation  was  forced  from  Miss 
Keith,  but  I  accept  it  notwithstanding." 
Laine,  who  had  risen,  put  his  hand  on  Doro- 
thea's shoulder.  "I  think  we  will  have  a  very 
nice  dinner-party." 

"I'll  chaperone  it!"  Dorothea  rose  to  full 
height  and  balanced  herself  on  her  toes.  ' '  Miss 
Robin  French  said  she  couldn't  go  on  some 
trip  the  other  day  because  there  was  no  chap- 
erone; and  if  a  lady  with  a  mole  on  her  chin 
and  nearly  forty  has  to  have  a  chaperone,  I 
guess  you  all  will.  Please  don't  stay  long, 
Cousin  Claudia.  If  you  don't  want  to  see 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

mother,  Uncle  Winthrop,  I'll  talk  to  you,  for 
after  dinner  I  will  have  to  go  right  straight  to 
bed,  being  a  brought-up-on-a-book  child,  and 
then  you  and  Cousin  Claudia  will  be  all  by 
yourselves.  Maybe  if  you  asked  mother, 
though,  she  might  let  me  sit  up  just  this  once. 
Shall  I  go  and  tell  her  you  say  so?" 

Laine  held  the  curtains  for  Claudia  to  pass 
out.  "We  wouldn't  be  so  cruel  as  to  keep  her 
up,  would  we?"  he  asked,  and  smiled  in  the 
eyes  turned  quickly  from  his.  "You  will  not 
be  gone  long,  and  you  won't  change  your 
dress?" 

"I  will  be  back  in  time  for  dinner — and  I 
won't  change  my  dress.  Tell  Dorothea  about 
the  birds  we  saw  this  afternoon." 

During  the  hour  that  passed  before  Claudia 
came  back  Dorothea  had  a  chance  that  sel- 
dom came  for  uninterrupted  conversation,  and 
that  her  uncle  said  little  was  not  noticed  for 
some  time.  Presently  she  looked  up. 

"I  don't  believe  you've  opened  your  lips 
since  Cousin  Claudia  went  up-stairs,"  she  said. 
"I  don't  wonder  you  don't  know  where  you 
went  this  afternoon  if  you  didn't  see  any  more 
than  you're  hearing  now.  You  don't  know  a 
thing  I've  been  talking  about." 

72 


DOROTHEA    ASKS    QUESTIONS 

Laine  raised  his  head  with  a  start.  "Oh 
yes,  I  do.  You  were  saying — saying — " 

' '  I  told  you  so !  You  didn't  even  know  where 
you  were!  You  were  way  off  somewhere." 
Dorothea's  voice  was  triumphant.  "I  want  to 
ask  you  something,  Uncle  Winthrop.  I  won't 
tell  anybody."  She  settled  herself  more  com- 
fortably on  the  stool  at  his  feet,  and  crossed 
her  arms  on  his  knees.  "Don't  you  think  my 
Cousin  Claudia  is  nice?" 

"Very  nice."  Laine  took  out  his  handker- 
chief, wiped  his  glasses,  and  held  them  to  the 
light. 

"And  don't  you  think  she  has  a  lovely 
mouth?  When  she  talks  I  watch  her  like  I 
haven't  got  a  bit  of  sense."  Dorothea  scanned 
her  uncle's  face  critically.  "Your  eyes  are 
dark;  and  hers  are  light,  with  dark  rims  around 
the  seeing  part,  and  she  just  comes  to  your 
shoulder;  but  you  look  so  nice  together.  I 
hope  you  feel  sorry  about  the  things  you  said 
about  her  before  she  came." 

"What  things?" 

"That  maybe  her  face  was  red  and  her  hair 
was  red  and  her  hands  were  red,  or  if  they 
weren't,  maybe  they  were  blue.  Aren't  you 
sorry?" 

6  73 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

"Very  sorry,  Dorothea.  I  was  rude  and 
tired  and  worried  that  evening.  Let's  forget 
it." 

"I  never  have  told  her,  but  I  supposed  you 
must  have  changed  your  mind,  for  you've  been 
here  so  much  lately,  and  gone  to  so  many 
places  with  her  that  you  don't  like  to  go  to, 
that  I  thought—" 

' '  Thought  what,  Dorothea  ?" 

"That  maybe — "  Dorothea  stroked  Laine's 
fingers  one  by  one — "maybe  you  liked  her  a 
little  bit.  Don't  you  remember  I  asked  you 
please  to  like  her,  and  you  didn't  seem  to  think 
you  would.  But  you  do,  don't  you?  I  won't 
tell  anybody.  Don't  you  like  her,  Uncle 
Winthrop?" 

"I  like  her  very  much,  Dorothea."  Into 
Laine's  clear-cut  face  the  color  crept  to  his 
temples.  "She  is  very  different  from  any  one 
I've—" 

"I  knew  you  would."  Dorothea's  hands 
came  together  excitedly.  "I  knew  it  the  min- 
ute I  saw  her,  for  she  isn't  a  bit  frilly,  and  you 
don't  like  frills  any  more  than  I  do,  and  she 
doesn't,  either.  She's  sees  through  people  like 
they  were  glass,  and  she  tells  us  the  grandest, 
shiveringest,  funniest  stories  you  ever  heard. 

74 


DOROTHEA    ASKS    QUESTIONS 

I  bet  she's  telling  Channing  one  this  minute. 
She  loves  children.  I'm  so  glad  you  like  her, 
Uncle  Winthrop.  I  knew  you  would  if  you 
saw  her,  but  I  didn't  know  you'd  see  her  so 
much." 

"How  could  I  help  it  if  I  saw  her  once? 
The  trouble  has  been  to  get  her  to  see  me. 
Perhaps  she  thinks  I  am  too  old  to — " 

"Oh,  she  knows  you  aren't  the  sweetheart 
kind — Miss  Robin  French  told  her  so,  and 
mother  and  everybody  says  you  are  too  set 
in  your  ways  to  get  married,  and  that's  why 
I  think  she  likes  you,  because  you  aren't  that 
sort.  She  hates  flum  talk,  and  you  talk  sense 
and  things.  She  told  father  so.  Here  she  is 
now.  Please  stay  with  Uncle  Winthrop,  Cousin 
Claudia,  while  I  ask  mother  if  I  may  take  din- 
ner with  you."  Dorothea  got  up.  "You  took 
off  your  riding  boots,  didn't  you?" 

Claudia  looked  at  her  slippers.  "I  surely 
did.  I  never  wear  high  shoes  in  the  house. 
Your  mother  says  you  may  take  dinner  with 
us,  but  she  wants  to  see  you  as  soon  as  it  is 
over.  Her  headache  is  better,  but  she  doesn't 
feel  Tike  coming  down  to-night." 


A   DISCOVERY 


i 


isn 


N  a  chair  of  curious  carving,  his  feet 
on  a  pile  of  books  "which  had  been 
unpacked,  but  for  which  there  was  as 
yet  no  place,  Winthrop  Laine  leaned 
back,  partly  relaxed,  partly  tense,  and 
with  half-shut  eyes  looked  at  a  picture 
on  the  wall  opposite.  For  an  hour,  two  hours, 
he  had  sat  like  this.  On  his  desk  was  an 
unfinished  article,  but  "The  Punishments  of 
Progress"  did  not  interest  to-night,  and  after 
vain  effort  to  write  he  had  thrown  the  pages 
aside  and  yielded  to  the  unrest  which  possessed 
him. 

In  his  hands  was  a  small  calendar,  and  with 
it  he  tapped  unconsciously  the  arm  of  his  chair; 
but  after  a  while  he  again  looked  at  it  and  with 
his  pencil  marked  the  date  of  the  month.  It 
was  the  fifteenth  of  December.  Miss  Keith  was 
going  home  on  the  eighteenth.  Three  days  of  her 

76 


A   DISCOVERY 

visit  yet  remained,  a  month  of  it  had  passed,  and 
after  she  went—  He  stirred  uneasily,  changed 
his  position,  put  down  the  calendar,  then  got 
up  and  began  to  walk  the  length  of  the  room 
backward  and  forward.  A  long  mirror  filled 
the  space  between  the  two  southern  windows, 
and  for  some  time  as  he  reached  it  he  avoided 
the  face  seen  therein;  but  after  a  while  he 
stopped  in  front  of  it,  hands  in  his  pockets,  and 
spoke  with  smiling  bitterness  to  it. 

"Take  it  off,  man,  take  it  off!  All  men 
wear  masks,  but  they  needn't  go  to  bed  with 
them.  For  years  you've  pretended,  smiled, 
sworn,  played  with  all  the  toys,  worked  with 
the  best  you  had,  and  believed  you  were  con- 
tent. And  you're  finding  out  at  forty  what  a 
fool  you've  been.  You  love  her.  She  isn't 
married  yet,  if  she  is  engaged  to  another  man — 
and  if  you've  no  fight  in  you,  go  make  a  hole  and 
get  in  it!" 

In  the  glass  he  saw  his  face  whiten,  saw  the 
lines  on  his  forehead  swell,  saw  his  eyes  grow 
dark  with  rebellious  pain,  and,  turning  away, 
went  to  a  window,  opened  it,  and  let  the  cold 
air  blow,  upon  him.  Few  people  were  on  the 
street,  and  in  the  windows  opposite  was  little 
light.  The  neighborhood  was  exclusively  cor- 

77 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

rect ;  and  only  that  evening  walking  home  from 
the  club  the  man  with  him  had  frankly  envied 
his  manner  of  life,  his  freedom  and  indepen- 
dence. He  closed  the  window,  turned  off  some 
of  the  lights,  and  went  back  to  his  chair.  ' '  I 
am  an  entirely  free  and  independent  person," 
he  said  aloud.  "A  most  desirable  condition 
for  a  man  without  a  heart. ' '  Why  did  men  have 
hearts,  anyhow,  and  especially  such  a  queer 
kind  as  he  had.  In  the  days  of  his  youth  he 
had  expected  the  days  of  his  maturity  to  find 
him  married,  find  him  with  the  responsibilities 
and  obligations  of  other  men;  but  he  had 
strange  views  of  marriage.  One  by  one  his 
friends  had  entered  the  estate;  he  had  helped 
them  enter  it,  but  he  had  acquired  an  unhealthy 
habit  of  watching  their  venture  with  wonder 
at  its  undertaking  and  with  doubt  of  its  suc- 
cess, and  the  years  had  gone  by  with  no  desire 
on  his  part  to  assume  the  risk.  What  he  saw 
was  not  the  life  he  wanted.  Just  what  he  did 
want  he  was  not  sure;  but  years  of  contact 
with  much  that  blights  and  withers  had  not 
killed  his  belief  in  certain  old-fashioned  things, 
and  if  they  could  not  come  true  the  journey 
would  be  made  alone. 

What  whimsical  ways  fate  had  of  deciding 
78 


A    DISCOVERY 

great  issues.  Four  weeks  ago  he  was  some- 
thing of  a  piece  of  mechanism,  fairly  content 
with  his  drab-colored  life;  and  now  a  girl  had 
entered  it  and  brought  to  him  visions  too  fair  and 
beautiful  to  be  viewed  unveiled,  and  he  knew  at 
last  the  mystery  and  power  of  love.  Almost  a 
week  of  her  stay  had  gone  before  he  met  her. 
In  those  that  followed,  he  had  seen  her  many 
times,  but  frequently  he  had  to  stand  back  and 
know  that  others  were  taking  her  time  when 
there  was  none  for  him  to  lose. 

Should  love  come  to  him,  he  had  imagined 
he  would  pursue  it  with  the  same  directness  and 
persistence  which  had  impelled  the  securing  of 
whatever  was  determined  upon,  and  instead  he 
was  that  most  despicable  of  things  —  a  coward. 

She  was  so  young — fourteen  years  younger 
than  he — and  what  was  his  to  offer  in  exchange 
for  her  life  of  varied  interests,  of  sweet,  sane, 
helpful,  happy  things  of  which  he  knew  so 
little?  He  had  thought  he  knew  life,  its  all 
sides;  and  unknown  to  herself  she  had  shown 
him  what  had  not  been  understood  before,  and 
his  was  cold  and  colorless  by  the  side  of  the 
warmth  and  glow  of  hers. 

Yesterday  he  had  known,  however,  he  would 
not  wait  long.  After  she  had  returned  to  her 

79 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

home  he  would  go  to  it  and  tell  her  why  he  had 
come.  All  through  the  day  certain  words  had 
sung  in  his  ears,  and  over  his  books  had  danced 
and  blurred  the  figures  he  was  making;  and 
before  him  in  fancy  she  was  waiting  for  his 
coming  when  the  day  was  done,  was  in  the 
room  with  outstretched  hands  to  give  him 
greeting  as  he  entered  the  door.  The  light  of  a 
new  vision  had  blinded,  and  in  its  fire  the  loneli- 
ness of  his  life  had  stood  out  in  chill  clearness, 
and  no  longer  could  it  be  endured.  Some  one 
to  care  if  the  days  were  dark,  some  one  to  share 
the  giving  and  taking  of  life.  At  the  thought 
of  trust  so  sacred,  his  face  had  whitened,  and  in 
his  heart  unconscious  prayer  had  sprung. 

That  was  yesterday.  This  afternoon  he  had 
stopped  at  his  sister's  home  for  tea,  as  he  had 
done  for  days  past  now,  and,  Dorothea  being 
sick,  he  had  gone  up  to  see  her  and  give  her  the 
book  bought  for  her.  As  usual,  she  had  much 
to  say,  and  he  let  her  talk  uninterruptedly.  It 
was  of  Claudia  that  she  talked,  always  of 
Claudia,  and  he  had  listened  in  a  silence  that 
gave  chance  for  much  detail. 

"She  gets  more  letters!"  Dorothea's  hands 
came  together  as  if  very  full.  "Every  day 
there  is  one  from  the  same  person,  sometimes 

So 


A    DISCOVERY 

two,  and  specials  and  telegrams ;  and  sometimes 
he  talks  over  the  telephone.  I  know  his  hand- 
writing now.  She  lets  me  come  in  her  room 
whenever  I  want  to.  I  don't  see  how  one 
person  could  have  so  much  to  say.  I  knew 
he  must  be  her  sweetheart,  and  I  asked 
mother,  and  mother  says  she's  engaged  to  a 
man  in  Washington.  Miss  Robin  French  told 
her.  Mother  thinks  it's  real  strange  Claudia 
didn't  tell  her."  And  he  had  answered  noth- 
ing, but  had  gone  down  the  steps  and  out  of 
the  house,  and  to  no  one  said  good  night. 


XI 


A   CHANCE   ENCOUNTER 

LAUDIA  glanced  at  the  clock.  She 
must  be  dressed  by  seven.  Hurriedly 
she  put  aside  the  letters  which  could 
wait,  and  began  to  write. 

"Just  three  days  more,  precious 
mother,  and  I  will  leave  for  home. 
I've  seen  such  remarkable  things;  heard  such 
wonderful  music ;  been  to  so  many  parties  and 
luncheons  and  teas  and  dinners;  met  so  many 
people,  some  fearfully,  dreadfully  dressed,  some 
beautifully,  gorgeously  gowned,  that  my  brain 
is  a  plum-pudding,  and  my  mind  mere  moving 
pictures.  It's  been  a  lovely  visit.  Channing  is 
a  dear,  and  Hope  has  done  her  full  duty,  but 
it's  something  of  a  strain  to  dwell  in  the  tents 
of  the  wealthy.  I'm  so  glad  we're  not  wealthy, 
mother.  There  are  hundreds  of  things  I'd  like 
money  for,  but  I've  gotten  to  be  as  afraid  of  it 
as  I  am  of  potato-bugs  when  the  plants  are  well 
up.  It  has  a  way  of  making  you  think  things 

82 


A   CHANCE    ENCOUNTER 

that  aren't  so.     I  do  hope  Uncle  Bushrod's  cold 
is  better. 

"I've  tried  to  fill  all  the  orders  from  every- 
body, but  some  I  haven't  found  yet.  Hope  and 
her  friends  shop  only  in  the  expensive  stores, 
and  the  prices  are  so  paralyzing  that,  though 
outwardly  I  don't  blink,  I'm  inwardly  appalled; 
but  I  put  the  things  aside  as  if  undecided 
whether  to  get  them  or  something  nicer.  I'm 
afraid  I  don't  mean  I'm  glad  we're  not  wealthy. 
Certainly  when  shopping  I  don't  wish  it.  I 
want  millions  then.  Millions!  And  when  I 
get  among  the  books  I'd  like  to  be  a  billionaire. 
To-morrow  I'm  going  out  by  myself  and  finish 
up  everything.  Hope  would  be  horrified  at 
my  purchases,  for  Hope  has  forgotten  when 
she,  too,  had  to  be  careful  in  her  expenditures. 
Her  brother  hasn't. 

"Did  I  tell  you  about  the  crazy  mistake  I 
made?  I  thought,  from  what  Dorothea  told 
me,  he  was  an  old  gentleman,  her  mother's 
uncle,  and  wrote  him  a  note  before  I  met  him. 
Dorothea  adores  him,  and  when  his  dog  died  I 
was  so  sorry  I  told  him  so.  I  wonder  what 
does  make  me  do  such  impulsive  things !  I  get 
so  discouraged  about  myself.  I'll  never,  never 
be  a  proper  person.  He  isn't  old. 

83 


THE    MAN   IN   LONELY   LAND 

"I  wish  you  could  see  the  letter  Beverly  wrote 
me  from  Mammy  Malaprop.  She  says  she  is 
'numberating  the  date  of  my  return  to  the 
dissolute  land  in  which  I  live,  and  is  a-preparing 
to  serve  for  supper  all  the  indelicacies  of  the 
season.'  If  I  didn't  know  old  Malaprop  I'd 
think  Beverly  was  making  up  her  messages, 
but  no  imagination  could  conceive  of  her  twists 
and  turns  of  the  English  language. 

"Are  the  hens  laying  at  all?  and  please  tell 
Andrews  to  watch  the  sheep  carefully;  it's  so 
bitterly  cold. 

"I've  had  a  beautiful  time,  but,  oh,  mother 
dear,  I  shall  be  so  glad  to  get  home,  where  there 
are  real  things  to  do  and  where  you  all  love 
me  just  for  myself!  Every  night  I  kiss  your 
picture  and  wish  it  was  you.  Best  love  for 
everybody.  I  have  Gabriel's  little  trumpet. 

"Devotedly, 

"CLAUDIA. 

"P.  S. — We  are  going  again  to-night  to  the 
opera.  If  only  you  were  going,  too!  I  never 
see  anything  beautiful,  hear  anything  beautiful, 
that  I  don't  wish  you  could  see  it  and  hear  it 
also.  I'm  so  glad  I  brought  my  riding-habit. 
They  have  been  the  best  things  of  all,  the  long, 

84 


A   CHANCE    ENCOUNTER 

splendid  rides  in  the  country.  So  much  nicer 
than  motoring.  Mr.  Laine  rides  better  than 
any  city  man  I  know.  Three  days  more  and  I 
leave  for  home. 

"C." 

Guilty  gladness  at  being  alone,  at  getting  off 
by  herself  and  going  where  she  chose,  so  pos- 
sessed her  the  next  day  that  as  Claudia  passed 
Mrs.  Warrick's  sitting-room  she  tip-toed  lest 
she  be  called  in  and  a  moment  of  her  precious 
freedom  be  lost.  Several  hours  of  daylight  were 
still  left,  but  there  was  much  to  be  done;  and 
hurriedly  she  went  down  the  steps,  hurriedly 
walked  to  the  avenue,  and  caught  the  'bus  she 
saw  coming  with  a  sigh  of  thankfulness.  In  the 
center  of  the  shopping  district  she  got  out  and 
disappeared  soon  after  in  one  of  the  stores. 
It  was  her  only  chance  for  the  simple  purchases 
to  be  made  for  the  slim  purses  of  her  country 
friends;  and  as  she  read  first  one  list  and  then 
the  other  she  smiled  at  the  variety  of  human 
desires  and  the  diversities  of  human  needs,  and 
quickly  made  decisions.  A  letter  received  just 
before  leaving  the  house  had  not  been  read,  but 
its  writing  was  recognized,  and  going  to  the 
door  she  tried  to  make  out  the  scrawly  con- 

85 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

tents  and  get,  at  the  same  time,  the  breath  of 
fresh  air  brought  in  by  its  opening  as  hurrying 
customers  came  and  went.  To  read  there  was 
impossible,  however.  Darkness  had  fallen ;  and, 
going  outside  for  a  moment,  she  looked  up  and 
down  at  the  surging,  pushing,  shivering  crowd 
and  wondered  as  to  the  time.  She  was  not 
through,  and  she  must  finish  before  going  back. 

"Is  Madame  Santa  Claus  ready  to  go  home?" 

Startled,  she  looked  up.  "Oh,  Mr.  Laine, 
I'm  so  glad!  Indeed  I'm  not  through,  and  it's 
dark  already.  Do  you  think  Hope  will  mind 
if  I  don't  get  back  for  tea?" 

"I  think  not."  He  smiled  in  the  troubled 
face.  "What  is  left  to  be  done?" 

"This  among  other  things."  Together  they 
moved  slowly  down  the  crowded  street,  and  she 
held  the  letter  in  her  hand  toward  him.  "It's 
from  Mrs.  Prosser,  who  has  eleven  children  and 
a  husband  who  is  their  father  and  that's  all. 
They  live  on  faith  and  the  neighbors,  but  she 
has  sold  a  pig  and  sent  me  part  of  the  money 
with  which  to  buy  everybody  in  the  family  a 
Christmas  present.  That's  all  I've  made  out." 

Laine  took  the  sheets  of  paper  torn  from  a 
blank-book  and  looked  at  them  under  an 
electric  light.  "This  Syro-Phcenician  writing 

86 


A    CHANCE    ENCOUNTER 

needs  what  it  can't  get  out  here,"  he  said,  after 
a  half -minute's  pause.  "A  cipher  requires  a 
code,  and  a  code  means  sitting  down.  Aren't 
you  cold?  You  are.  Come  over  here  and 
we'll  have  some  tea  and  work  it  out  together." 
And  before  protest  could  be  made  they  were  in 
a  hotel  across  the  street  and  at  a  table  on  which 
a  shaded  light  permitted  a  closer  examination 
of  the  penciled  scrawl  which  went  for  writing. 
Slowly  he  read  aloud : 

"DERE  Miss  CLAUDIA, — The  chillern  is  near 
bout  set  me  crazy  sence  I  tole  'em  I  was  agoin' 
to  ask  you  to  do  me  some  favors  which  is  to 
buy  for  me  some  New  York  krismus  presents. 
I  have  sole  the  pig  and  I  am  a-puttin'  in  this 
six  dollars  and  sixteen  cents.  I  would  have 
sent  seven  dollars  even  but  the  baby  had  the 
colic  so  bad  I  had  to  git  some  more  of  that 
pain-killer  which  I  give  the  hoss  onct,  and 
Johnnie  lost  the  change  comin'  home  from  the 
store.  The  baby  is  well,  but  the  hoss  ain't. 
The  followin'  is  what  I  would  like  to  have. 
Ifen  you  can't  git  the  things,  git  what  you  can. 
I  have  confidence  in  your  jedgment. 

"2  pare  sox  and  a  maresharm  pipe  for  the 
old  man.  Don't  spend  more  than  fifty  cents 
on  him.  He  drunk  up  the  whiskey  your  ma 

87 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

give  me  for  the  mincemeat  for  Thanksgivin' 
and  I  had  to  lock  him  up  in  the  garret.  He'd 
like  the  pipe  yaller. 

"i  A  blew  skarf  pin — Johnnie. 

"  2  A  bracelet.  Bras  will  do  if  you  can't  git 
gold.  Minnie  is  the  meekest  and  don't  look 
for  much  but  she  wants  a  bracelet  awful  bad. 

"3  A  box  of  paper  and  envellopes  for  Maizzie 
— Maizzie's  got  a  bow.  He  lives  in  the  next 
county.  I  don't  let  the  chillern  say  nothin'. 
I'm  'fraid  they'll  scare  the  ducks. 

"4  A  wax  doll  in  pink  tarlton  for  Rosy.  She 
won't  be  here  next  krismus.  The  doctor  done 
tole  me,  and  my  hart  it  have  been  hurtin'  so 
ever  since  that  I  have  to  hide  every  now  and 
then  so  as  to  git  my  breath  good.  Sometimes 
I  can't  help  chokin',  I  can't.  She  seen  a  doll 
in  pink  tarlton  onct  and  the  other  night  I 
heard  her  talkin'  up  the  chimney  and  she  was 
askin'  Santa  Claus  to  bring  her  one  if  he  could 
spare  it.  Ifen  you  can't  git  all  the  things  with 
the  pig  money,  please'm  git  the  doll,  and  in 
pink,  please'm,  and  let  the  others  go." 

Laine  took  up  his  cup  of  tea  and  drank  it 
slowly.  "Part  of  this  is  hard  to  make  out," 
he  said,  after  a  moment.  "I  can't  see  it  very 
well." 


A    CHANCE    ENCOUNTER 

"All  of  it  is  hard."  Claudia  put  a  piece  of 
cracker  in  her  mouth.  "But  it's  a  wonder  she 
can  write  at  all.  The  boys  are  as  trifling  as 
their  father,  and  she  does  the  work  of  five 
people.  Is  that  all?" 

Laine  began  again.  "Becky  say  she  don't 
want  nothin'  but  a  pare  of  silk  stockings.  She's 
crazy,  but  she  seen  the  summer  girls  with  'em 
and  I  don't  reckon  it  will  do  no  harm  if  we 
ain't  pracktical  at  krismus.  It  do  seem  like 
krismus  ain't  for  prackticals.  40  cents  is  her 
share. 

"Sam  he  wants  a  harmonicum,  and  Bobbie 
he  just  set  his  hart  on  a  sled.  I  don't  reckon 
you  can  get  that  in  your  trunk,  and  ifen  you 
can't  a  necktie  will  have  to  do.  The  other 
chillern  is  so  small  it  don't  make  no  difference 
what  you  get  for  them,  any  little  thing  you  can 
pick  up  will  please  'em.  They  is  all  so  excited 
about  havin'  presents  from  New  York  that 
they's  plum  crazy.  I  don't  know  what  the 
county  would  do  without  you,  Miss  Claudia. 
You  is  everybody's  friend  and  everybody  is — 

Claudia  put  out  her  hand.  "Oh,  that  part 
doesn't  matter.  I'll  take  it  now.  We'll  have 
to  go.  Are  you  ready?" 

' '  Not  quite. ' '   Laine,  who  had  finished  the  let- 

7  89 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

ter,  handed  it  to  her,  then  took  out  a  note-book 
and  pencil.  "Are  you  sure  you  can  remem- 
ber the  things?  Hadn't  I  better  write  them 
down?" 

Claudia  shook  her  head.  "Not  a  bit  of  use. 
These  are  the  last  to  get,  and  then  I'm  through. 
Are  you?" 

"Am  I  what?" 

"Through." 

"Through  what?" 

"With  your  Christmas  things.  I  don't  sup- 
pose men  have  as  much  to  do  as  women  and 
don't  have  to  begin  so  early.  Some  people 
don't  love  Christmas.  It's  such  a  pity." 

"It's  a  pity  the  old  Christmas  has  given  way 
to  the  new  one.  With  many  it's  a  sort  of  hold- 
up. I  don't  believe  in  it." 

Claudia's  arms  were  folded  on  the  table,  and 
her  eyes  were  gravely  looking  into  his.  "What 
kind  do  you  believe  in?" 

Into  Laine's  face  the  color  crept  slowly,  then 
he  laughed.  "I  really  don't  know.  I  only 
know  the  present  kind  is  wrong." 

"You  know  a  great  many  things  that  are 
wrong,  don't  you?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  do."  With  his  handkerchief 
Laine  wiped  his  glasses,  put  them  back,  and 

90 


A   CHANCE    ENCOUNTER 

again  tapped  the  table.     "That  is,  I  know  a 
great  many  things  that  aren't  nice  to  know." 

"Most  of  us  do.  It  isn't  difficult  to  see  what 
isn't  nice  in  people  or  things."  She  got  up. 
"I'm  sorry  you  don't  love  Christmas." 

"Why  should  I  love  it?  For  the  men  at  the 
office  there  are  checks;  for  my  brother's  widow 
and  children  are  other  checks;  for  Hope,  an- 
other. A  man  makes  a  mess  of  buying  presents. 
Cigars  for  men  and  flowers  for  women  are  the 
two  orders  telephoned  in  advance  for  the  few 
so  remembered.  The  employees  at  the  clubs, 
the  servants  at  the  house,  the — the  associa- 
tions which  do  things  merely  mean  more  money, 
and  money— 

"I  think  I  should  hate  Christmas,  too,  if  it 
merely  meant  the  writing  of  checks  or  the  giving 
of  gold.  I  wouldn't  want  a  million  if  there  was 
no  love  with  it."  Eyes  on  her  muff,  she 
smoothed  it  softly.  "That  is  what  Christmas 
is  for.  To  take  time  to  remember,  and  to  let 
people  know  we  do  care — and  to  make  some- 
body glad.  Let  me  see."  On  her  fingers  she 
enumerated  the  things  desired  by  Mrs.  Prosser. 
"Harmonicum,  silk  stockings,  socks,  yellow 
pipe,  blue  scarf-pin,  bracelet  (brass  or  gold),  box 
of  paper,  sled,  and — " 

91 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

"A  doll  in  pink  tarleton."  Again  in  Laine's 
face  the  color  crept  slowly.  He  hesitated.  ' '  In 
all  my  life  I  never  bought  a  doll  or  a  sled  or 
anything  except  books  for  children.  May  I  go 
with  you?  And  would — would  you  mind  if  I 
got  that  doll?" 


XII 


CHRISTMAS   SHOPPING 

IVE  minutes  later  Laine  and  Claudia 
were  caught  in  the  crowd  of  Christmas 
shoppers  and  valiantly  made  their  way 
to  a  counter  on  which  were  objects  gay 
and  glittering.  With  a  seriousness 
and  persistency  that  was  comic  to  the 
girl  watching  him,  Laine  began  with  the  blue 
scarf-pin  and  the  bracelet,  but  not  until  he  was 
giving  an  order  did  she  touch  him  on  the  arm 
and  draw  him  aside. 

"We  can't  get  those,  Mr.  Laine,  indeed  we 
can't."  She  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the 
counter.  "There  aren't  but  six  dollars  and 
sixteen  cents  of  the  pig  money,  and  a  dozen 
things  to  buy  yet." 

"Oh,  blow  the  pig  money!  She  won't  know 
the  difference.  That  pin  is  only  one  dollar  and 
ninety-eight  cents  and  the  bracelet  two  dollars 
and  forty-eight  cents.  Nothing  could  be  worse 
than  that,  could  it?" 

93 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

"It  could.  Johnnie  is  a  lazy  good-for- 
nothing,  and  twenty-five  cents  is  all  his  pin  is 
to  cost.  It  will  be  big  and  blue,  but  not  a 
penny  over  twenty-five  can  be  spent  on  it.  I 
think  we'd  better  get  the  doll  and  the  silk 
stockings  and  the  sled  first.  I've  already 
bought  a  doll  for  Rosy,  but  it's  in  white,  and 
we'll  have  to  get  the  pink  one." 

"And  is  the  pig  money  going  to  do  all  that?" 
Laine's  eyes  were  searching  Claudia's. 

"It  is."  She  laughed  and  turned  away  as  if 
to  see  some  one  who  was  passing.  "It  doesn't 
matter  whose  pig." 

"Then  I'll  play  the  pig  to-night !  I've  played 
it  the  wrong  way  often  enough.  Why  can't 
we  be  sensible?  I've  got  a  spending  jag 
on,  and  I've  never  been  Christmas  shopping 
before.  Something  is  happening  to  my  back- 
bone, something  that  used  to  happen  in  the 
days  whenTI  hung  up  my  stocking.  Please  be 
good  and  let  me  have  a  little  Christmas!" 

Claudia's  forehead  wrinkled  and  for  a  mo- 
ment she  hesitated,  then  again  her  eyes  sought 
his  doubtfully.  ' '  I  don't  know  whether  I  ought 
to.  You  are  very  kind,  but — " 

"But  nothing.  I'm  merely  very  selfish. 
Those  things  are  all  right.  Come  on  and  let's 

94 


CHRISTMAS    SHOPPING 

go  in  the  toy  department.  The  doll  is  the  most 
important  of  all,  and  don't  dolls  have  carriages 
or  something?  Here,  this  way  to  the  elevator." 

To  the  joy  of  it,  the  surrender  to  inherent 
instinct,  to  the  child  that  is  dormant  in  all, 
Claudia  and  Laine  yielded,  went  in  and  out 
among  the  sea  of  toys,  and  critically  doll  after 
doll  was  examined,  compared,  laid  down  and 
taken  up,  and  finally  decided  upon;  and  as 
Laine  gave  the  address  he  looked  at  Claudia 
for  final  confirmation  and  approval. 

"You're  sure  it's  pink?  Her  mother  said 
pink,  you  know." 

"Pink!  It's  the  pinkest  pink  I  ever  saw. 
It  is  much  too  grand.  But,  oh,  those  patient 
little  eyes!  I  didn't  think  she'd  be  here  this 
Christmas.  You  will  make  her  so  happy,  Mr. 
Laine." 

"Not  I."  He  shook  his  head.  "It  is  you. 
What  does  a  man  know  about  things  like  this? 
But  what  else  does  she  want  ?  I  never  had  any 
opinion  of  a  one-piece  Santa  Claus.  These 
things  would  make  a  monk  want  children  of 
his  own.  How  about  those  youngsters  that 
anything  will  please?  and  don't  you  have  to 
have'things  for  stockings?" 

With  hurried  decisions,  as  if  afraid  he  might 
95 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

not  be  allowed  to  do  what  he  chose,  Laine  went 
up  and  down  and  in  and  out  among  the  many 
sections  into  which  the  department  was  divided, 
and  made  his  selections  with  entire  disregard  of 
appropriateness;  and  Claudia,  keeping  near, 
countermanded  with  equal  firmness  all  that  was 
unwise.  So  warm  at  times  did  their  dissensions 
wax  that  the  sales-girl  following  would  smile  and 
point  out  something  before  unseen,  hoping  a 
mutual  surrender  would  accept  the  compromise, 
and  presently  she  brought  up  a  cash  register 
and  held  it  toward  Laine. 

"Most  children  like  these,"  she  said,  "and  as 
your  wife  doesn't  care  for  the  mechanical  toys— 

Laine  turned  away.  With  pitiless  reality  the 
play  of  it  all  came  over  him,  and  he  walked  off 
lest  the  sudden  surging  of  his  blood  be  'heard. 

"But  I'm  not  his  wife."  Claudia's  voice  was 
cool  and  even.  "He  doesn't  know  the  children 
he  is  getting  these  things  for,  and  I  do.  But 
Channing  would  like  this  register,  Mr.  Laine. 
And  Dorothea  told  me  she  wanted  a  drawing- 
table  like  that  one  over  there.  Have  you 
bought  Dorothea's  present  yet?" 

Laine  came  back.  "Only  books.  Her  mother 
gets  the  other  things  for  me.  If  she'd  like  that, 
get  it." 

96 


CHRISTMAS    SHOPPING 

Out  of  his  voice  had  gone  all  spirit,  and 
Claudia,  noticing,  looked  up.  "You're  tired, 
aren't  you?  I  think  we'd  better  stop." 

Laine  laughed.  "Tired?  No,  I'm  not  tired. 
I'm  having  a  great  time.  Playing  make- 
believe  is  a  good  game.  I  haven't  played  it 
lately,  and  I  was  doing  it  rather  hard.  I  won- 
der what  that  bunch  of  people  are  over  there 
for?  A  number  of  children  seem  to  be  among 
them." 

The  girl  waiting  on  them  looked  around.  It 
was  Santa  Claus,  she  explained,  who  was  taking 
the  names  and  addresses,  with  a  list  of  the 
presents  most  wanted  by  the  children  who  were 
there  to  tell  where  they  lived.  "Some  of  them 
have  been  here  all  day.  That  little  lame  fellow 
was  among  the  first  to  come,  and  Santa  Claus 
hasn't  seen  him  yet.  The  crowd  pushes  him 
out  so,  and  there's  no  one  to  lift  him  up  high 
enough  to  be  seen.  He's  held  that  piece  of 
paper  in  his  hand  for  hours." 

Laine  looked  closer.  On  the  outskirts  of  the 
crowd,  his  thin  little  face  still  eagerly  trying  to 
peer  between  the  shifting  circles,  his  crutches 
held  tightly  by  hands  too  thin  to  grasp  them 
properly,  he  saw  the  boy  pointed  out  by  the 
girl,  and,  without  a  word,  he  walked  toward 

97 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

him.  As  he  drew  nearer,  the  head  of  Santa 
Claus  could  be  seen  over  those  of  the  crowd, 
but  to  the  child  he  was  still  invisible ;  and  as 
Laine  saw  the  pinched  face  he  swore  softly 
under  his  breath. 

For  half  a  minute  he  stood  by  the  boy's  side, 
then  touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  "What  is 
it,  son?  Can't  you  make  the  old  fellow  see 
you?" 

The  child  shook  his  head.  "Somebody 
always  gets  in  ahead.  I  ain't  tall  enough." 

"Here,  hold  your  crutches."  With  a  swift 
movement  Laine  swung  the  boy  on  his  shoulders. 
"There,  can  you  see  him  all  right?" 

"Yes,  sir.  And  he  can  see  me!"  The  thin 
little  hand  was  held  up,  and  Laine  felt  the 
quiver  that  ran  over  the  frail  body.  "He  sees 
me!" 

"Well,  my  man" — Santa  Claus  was  noticing 
at  last — "what  is  it  that  you  want?" 

"A  coat  for  mother.  Black,  please."  Soft 
and  eager  the  words  came  quickly.  "And  a 
worsted  skirt,  and  some  shoes  for  Dick,  and  a 
muff  for  Katie." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  bringing  anything  but  toys  this 
time.  Only  toys.  Quick,  what  are  they?" 

On  his  shoulders  again  Laine  felt  a  quiver, 
98 


CHRISTMAS    SHOPPING 

this  time  of  sudden  relaxation,  and  heard  a  sob 
that  was  quickly  smothered.  "Oh,  I  don't 
need  toys,  and  mother  hasn't  got  a  piece  of 
coat." 

Laine  coughed  and  caught  the  eye  of  Santa 
Claus,  and  by  telepathy  made  the  latter  un- 
derstand his  questions  must  continue.  Two 
minutes  and  they  were  over,  the  child's  name 
and  address  taken,  his  desires  made  known,  and 
as  he  put  him  down  on  the  floor  Laine  took 
from  the  trembling  fingers  the  piece  of  paper 
which  for  hours  had  been  tightly  held  and  put  it 
in  his  pocket. 

"All  right,  son."  He  slipped  some  money  in 
his  hand.  "Run  down-stairs  and  get  some- 
thing to  eat  before  you  go  home,  and  don't 
worry  about  the  things — they'll  be  there 
Christmas,  Scoot!"  And  with  a  pat  Laine  sent 
him  off. 

Coming  back  he  turned  to  Claudia.  "Are 
you  through  up  here?  The  yellow  pipe  and 
the  socks  for  the  man  who  gets  locked  in  the 
garret  are  down-stairs,  I  suppose." 

For  answer  Claudia  looked  in  his  face  as  if 

not  hearing.     "Merciful  goodness!"  she  said. 

"I  had  forgotten  all  about  this  being  Tuesday! 

I  ought  to  be  home  this  minute.    A  friend  from 

99 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

« 

Washington    is    coming    to    dinner    to-night. 
What  time  is  it?" 

Laine  looked  at  his  watch.  "A  friend  from 
Washington"  was  what  he  read.  He  turned 
the  face  toward  her.  "What  is  it?  I  can't 
see  it  in  this  light." 

"Seven- twenty-five!"  Claudia  sat  down  de- 
jectedly. "You  don't  suppose  they  could  be 
waiting,  do  you?" 

"I  don't.'  Laine  smiled  a  twisted  little 
smile.  "Channing  by  nature  is  a  train-des- 
patcher.  Dinner  on  the  dot  and  served  swiftly 
is  his  one  household  demand.  They  will  be 
half  through  before  we  can  get  there." 
•  "And  I'm  starving."  She  got  up.  "Well, 
I  can't  help  it.  I  had  no  business  forgetting, 
but  I'm  always  doing  things  I  oughtn't." 

"We'll  go  up  to  Sherry's.  Dinner  isn't 
limited  to  Hope's  house.  I'll  telephone  and 
explain." 

' '  Oh,  I  mustn't !  It  isn't  just  dinner.  I  have 
an  engagement.  Do  you  think  we  could  get 
there  very  quickly?  I  can't  understand  how  I 
forgot!" 


XIII 


MR.    LAINE   GOES   SHOPPING   ALONE 

ID  you  ring,  sir?" 

Moses,  standing  at  the  door,  waited, 
and  as  he  waited  he  talked  to  himself. 
"Something  is  the  matter  with  Mr. 
Laine.  He  ain't  never  call  Gineral's 
name  since  he  done  pass  away,  and  I 
know  the  miss  of  him  has  been  a-smartin',  but 
don't  seem  like  that  would  have  made  him  so 
restless  like  he  been.  'Tain't  like  him  to  come 
in  and  go  right  out,  and  come  back  and  go  out 
again.  He  got  something  on  his  mind,  a  kind 
of  warfare  like."  He  coughed  slightly  and 
again  spoke.  "Did  you  ring,  Mr.  Laine?" 

"I  did.  Five  minutes  ago.  As  a  member 
of  the  leisure  class  you'd  take  a  blue  ribbon, 
Moses.  Where  in  the  devil  are  you?  Why 
don't  you  come  in?  I  can't  talk  to  air."  ,-i 
"I  was  waitin'  to  see  if  I  was  mistook  about 
the  bell."  Moses  came  inside  the  room. 

101 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

"Where  I  come  from  folks  don't  step  so  lively 
as  they  do  up  here,  and  old  Colonel  Tayloes,  he 
used  to  say  there  ain't  nothin'  so  inelegant  as 
hurry,  lessen  'tis  worry.  But  of  course  I 
shouldn't  have  had  no  discussion  in  my  mind 
about  that  bell.  I  got  a  bad  way  of  projectin' 
when — " 

"You  don't  want  to  move.  You  have. 
Any  day  an  affidavit  is  needed  to  that  effect 
I'll  sign  it.  Did  you  go  to  that  address  I  gave 
you  yesterday?" 

"Yes,  sir.  I  went  and  I  been  a-tryin'  to 
forgit  I  went  ever  since  I  got  back.  It's  God's 
truth  the  boy  told  you.  I  seen  him  and  his 
ma,  and  all  the  other  children  'cept  those  at 
work,  and  the  whole  of  'em  was  livin'  in  two 
rooms,  and  a  closet  where  the  biggest  boy 
slept.  Their  pa  he  got  kilt  at  the  shops  where 
he  work,  and  the  lawyer  what  undertook  to  get 
damages  got  'em,  and  they  ain't  seen  him 
since." 

"Did  you  notice  the  size  of  the  woman  and 
the  age  of  the  children?" 

"Yes,  sir.     The  mother  she  come  near  'bout 

up  to  my  shoulder  and  was  thin  and  wore-out 

lookin'.     The  two  little  ones  was  four  and  two 

years  old.     You  saw  the  lame  one.     There's  a 

102 


MR.    LAINE   GOES    SHOPPING 

girl  seven.  She's  a  puller-out  of  bastin's,  her 
ma  said,  and  the  oldest  girl  is  fourteen.  She's 
a  runner,  or  a  cash,  or  somethin'  in  a  store. 
The  biggest  boy  is  in  a  foundry-shop  and  the 
lame  one  sells  papers." 

"A  mother  and  six  children."  Laine  made 
some  notes  in  a  book  and  put  it  back  in  his 
pocket.  "I'm  going  out.  Have  a  cab  here  at 
eight-thirty.  The  things  I  bring  back  will  be 
put  in  the  room  at  the  end  of  the  hall.  On 
Christmas  Eve  you  are  to  buy  what  I've  men- 
tioned in  this" — he  handed  him  an  envelope — 
"and  with  them  take  the  bundles  in  the  room 
to  the  place  you  went  to  yesterday.  You  are 
not  to  know  who  sent  them,  and  when  you 
come  back  you  are  to  forget  you've  been,  and 
no  one  is  to  be  told.  You  have  a  great  habit  of 
telling  Dorothea  things .  I'm  understood,  am  I  ? " 

"Yes,  sir.  You  is  understood.  I  know 
about  a  left  hand  and  a  right  hand.  God  knows 
I'll  be  glad  to  go  again  if  it's  to  take  some 
Christmas  to  them.  That  woman's  face  kinder 
hant  me  ever  sence  I  seen  it.  'Twasn't  mad 
or  nothin',  but  plum  beat  out.  I  had  to  make 
a  little  egg-nog  for  my  stomach  when  I  got 
home.  'Tain't  time  for  egg-nog,  but  a  dis- 
turbance in  the  stomach — " 
103 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

''You're  having  a  disturbance  in  your  stomach 
too  often.  Get  that  cab,  will  you,  and  tell 
them  to  hurry." 

Two  hours  later  he  was  back.  No  doubt  he 
had  done  foolishly,  bought  unwisely;  but  there 
had  been  no  time  for  indecision,  and  the  woman 
who  waited  on  him  had  been  a  great  help.  As 
he  was  shown  warm  dresses  and  thick  coats 
for  the  mother  and  little  girls,  suits  and  shoes 
and  stockings  for  the  boys,  bedclothing,  towels, 
soap,  ribbons,  and  neckties,  he  had  smiled  at 
the  absurdity  of  his  opinion  being  asked  con- 
cerning things  of  which  he  was  as  ignorant  as  a 
blind  baby;  but  with  determination  he  kept 
on  until  the  woman  told  him  he  had  gotten 
enough.  With  the  toys  he  was  more  confident ; 
and,  remembering  Claudia's  restrictions,  he  had 
exercised  what  he  believed  was  excellent  judg- 
ment and  only  bought  what  was  probably 
appropriate. 

When  the  bed  in  the  end  room  had  been 
piled  with  his  purchases,  the  door  locked,  and 
the  key  in  Moses's  pocket,  Laine  went  into  the 
library,  turned  off  its  brilliant  lights,  and,  leav- 
ing only  the  lamp  burning,  closed  the  door,  sat 
down  in  his  high-back  chair,  and  lighted  a  cigar. 
After  the  stir  and  glow  of  the  store  the  silence 
104 


MR.    LAINE    GOES    SHOPPING 

of  the  room  was  oppressive,  its  emptiness 
chilled,  and,  unthinking,  he  put  his  hand  down 
by  the  side  of  his  chair  and  flipped  his  fingers 
as  he  was  wont  to  do  when  calling  General. 
With  an  indrawn  breath  he  drew  his  hand  back 
and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  His  Christmas 
shopping  was  over.  A  very  unexpected  Christ- 
mas shopping  it  had  been.  In  all  that  city  of 
millions  there  were  few  personal  purchases  to 
be  made  for  others.  What  had  to  be  gotten 
Hope  got.  Not  since  the  death  of  his  mother 
had  Christmas  meant  more  than  something  to 
be  dreaded  and  endured.  And  to  Claudia  it 
meant  so  much. 

Why  had  she  come  into  his  life?  Why  was 
hers  the  divine  gift  of  recognition  which  dis- 
pensed with  the  formal  development  of  friend- 
ship and  yielded,  as  a  flower  its  fragrance,  the 
warmth  and  gladness,  the  surety  and  genuine- 
ness, that  so  long  he  had  looked  for.  Appar- 
ently she  was  as  unconscious  as  Dorothea,  and 
yet  too  many  men  had  loved  her  for  her  not  to 
understand.  Not  by  the  subtlest  sign  had  she 
shown,  however.  Indifference  or  dislike  would 
have  been  more  encouraging,  but  her  cordial 
frankness  had  been  that  of  unstirred  depths. 

Suppose  she  was  engaged  to  another  man? 

8  105 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

Was  that  any  reason  why  he  should  not  tell 
her  of  his  love,  ask  her  to  be  his  wife?  Puri- 
tanic scruples  such  as  his  were  beyond  pardon. 
A  sense  of  honor  might  go  too  far.  Why  didn't 
he  find  out  if  it  were  true  what  Dorothea  had 
told  him?  God!  To  have  had  a  vision,  only 
to  go  through  life  in  darkness ! 

An  hundred  times  in  fancy  he  had  heard  the 
sweep  of  her  skirts,  the  sound  of  her  footsteps, 
the  tones  of  her  voice,  and  laughter  gay  and  sweet 
and  soft;  an  hundred  times  had  seen  the  glad 
eyes  grow  grave,  the  forehead  wrinkle  in  fine 
folds,  the  quick  turn  of  her  head ;  an  hundred 
times  had  felt  the  touch  of  her  hands;  and  he 
had  never  asked  Hope  to  bring  her  to  his  home, 
lest  her  spirit  should  not  come  again. 

The  badinage  of  other  days  came  to  him,  the 
days  when  women  had  rather  bothered.  They 
would  be  amused,  these  women,  did  they  know 
his  surrender  to  the  god  unknown  at  that  time 
— the  god  he  had  sometimes  smiled  at  because 
he  had  not  known.  Day  after  to-morrow  she 
was  going  home.  He  had  not  seen  her 
since  the  afternoon  they  had  been  shopping 
together.  The  man  from  Washington  had 
claimed  her  time,  and  he  had  stayed  away. 
Who  was  this  man  ?  To  ask  Hope  or  Channing 
1 06 


MR.    LAINE    GOES    SHOPPING 

had  been  impossible.  Dorothea  would  be  de- 
lighted to  tell  him.  The  instincts  of  her  sex 
were  well  developed  in  Dorothea ;  and  she  missed 
no  chance  of  letting  him  know  of  Claudia's  en- 
gagements, of  what  she  did,  and  where  she  went, 
and  from  whom  her  flowers  came.  Doubtless 
she  would  be  delighted  to  tell  him  even  more. 
He  got  up  and  began  to  walk  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  room.  The  sound  of  his  foot- 
steps was  lost  in  the  heavy  rugs,  and  only  the 
ticking  of  the  clock  broke  the  stillness,  and 
presently  it  struck  the  hour  of  midnight.  He 
took  out  his  watch  and  looked  at  it.  "To- 
morrow she  is  going  home,"  he  said. 


XIV 


AN   INFORMAL  VISIT 

T  the  door  of  what  was  still  called  the 
nursery  Laine  stood  a  moment,  hesi- 
tating whether  to  go  in  or  to  go  away. 
In  a  low  rocking-chair  Claudia  was 
holding  Channing,  half-asleep  in  her 
arms;  and  at  her  feet  Dorothea,  on 
a  footstool,  elbows  on  knees  and  chin  in  the 
palms  of  her  hands,  was  listening  so  intently  to 
the  story  being  told  that  for  half  a  minute  his 
presence  was  not  noted. 

Presently  she  looked  up  and  saw  him.  ' '  Come 
in."  Her  voice  was  a  high  whisper.  "It's 
the  grandest  story.  Wait  a  minute,  Cousin 
Claudia."  She  ran  toward  the  door  and  drew 
him  in.  "You'll  have  to  stay  with  us,"  she 
said,  "because  mother  and  father  have  gone 
out.  Some  kind  of  a  relation  is  in  town  and 
they  had  to  go.  Channing's  got  an  awful  cold, 
and  mother  said  he  could  have  anything  he 
108 


AN   INFORMAL   VISIT 

wanted,  and  he  took  Cousin  Claudia  to  tell  him 
stories.  She's  been  doing  it  ever  since  dinner. 
He's  asleep  now,  but — " 

"I'm  not  asleep."  Channing's  eyes  opened 
blinkingly.  "She  said  they  found  the  squirrel 
in  a  hollow  down  by  the  chestnut-tree,  and  the 
moonlight  on  the  snow — the  moonlight — on — 
the — snow."  His  head  fell  back  on  Claudia's 
bosom  and,  with  a  smile,  she  nodded  to  Laine 
and  held  out  her  hand. 

"The  spirit  is  valiant,  but  the  flesh  prevails. 
I'm  so  sorry  Hope  and  Channing  are  out." 

"I'm  not."  He  drew  a  cushioned  wicker 
chair  close  to  the  fire.  "It's  been  long  since 
I  heard  a  good  fairy  story.  Please  don't 
stop." 

Dorothea  pushed  the  stool  aside  and  settled 
herself  comfortably  in  her  uncle's  lap.  "It 
isn't  a  fairy  story.  You  don't  tell  fairy  stories 
at  Christmas;  they're  for  summer,  when  the 
windows  are  open  and  they  can  hide  in  the 
flowers  and  ride  on  the  wind — the  fairies,  I  mean 
— but  this  is  Christmas."  She  twisted  herself 
into  a  knot  of  quivering  joy  and  hugged  her 
arms  with  rapturous  intensity.  "It's  all  in  my 
bones,  and  I'm  nothing  but  shivers.  Isn't  it 
grand  to  have  Christmas  in  your  bones  ?  Have 
109 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

you  got  it  in  yours?"  She  held  Laine's  face 
between  her  hands  and  looked  at  it  anxiously. 
"Cousin  Claudia  has  it  in  hers.  She  and  I  are 
just  alike.  We've  been  filling  stockings  to-day 
for  some  children  Timkins  told  us  about.  They 
live  near  him,  and  their  mother  is  sick  and  their 
father  is  dead,  and  they  haven't  a  bit  of  money. 
Channing  and  I  are  going  to  hang  our  stockings 
up  here  before  we  go  to  grandmother's,  and 
we're  going  to  hang  them  up  there  again.  I 
wish  we  were  going  to  Cousin  Claudia's.  Of 
course,  I  love  to  go  to  grandmother's,  but  she 
lives  in  town  and  they  don't  have  snow  in 
Savannah;  and  at  Cousin  Claudia's  they  have 
everything.  I  mean  everything  Christmasy 
like  I  like.  She's  been  telling  us  about  when 
she  was  a  little  girl." 

Dorothea's  feet  twisted  around  each  other 
and  her  hands  were  laid  palm  to  palm  as  her 
body  swayed  backward  and  forward  in  rhythmic 
movement.  "They  go  out  in  the  woods  and 
cut  cart-loads  of  holly  and  mistletoe  and  pine 
and  Christmas-trees,  and  dress  the  house,  and 
the  fires  roar  up  all  the  chimneys,  and  they  kill 
the  pigs — " 

Charming  sat  upright  and  rubbed  his  eyes. 
"They  don't  kill  the  pigs  at  Christmas.  She 
no 


AN    INFORMAL    VISIT 

said  they  kill  them  when  the  persimmons  get 
ripe." 

''Well,  they're  killed  and  you  eat  them 
Christmas.  They  put  a  little  one  on  the  table 
with  an  apple  in  its  mouth.  And  they  pick 
out  the  fattest  turkeys  and  ducks  and  geese  and 
chickens;  and  they  go  to  the  smoke-house  and 
punch  and  poke  the  hams  and  things;  and  the 
oysters  come  from  the  river;  and  Mammy 
Malaprop  comes  up  from  the  gate,  where  she 
lives  now,  and  helps  make  the  cakes  and  the 
pies  and  plum-puddings  and  beaten  biscuits ;  and 
Cousin  Claudia  says  when  she  was  a  little  girl 
Mammy  Malaprop  always  gave  her  some  of  the 
Christmas  cake  to  bake  in  egg-shells.  I  wish 
I  could  see  somebody  make  a  cake.  And 
Christmas  Eve  they  make  egg-nog,  and  Uncle 
Bushrod  makes  the  apple  toddy  two  weeks 
before."  She  turned  to  her  uncle.  "Why  don't 
you  go  down  there,  Uncle  Winthrop?  I  bet 
you'd  get  Christmas  in  your  bones  if  you  did." 

' '  I  am  very  sure  of  it . "  Laine  fixed  Dorothea 
more  firmly  on  his  lap.  "There  is  only  one 
reason  in  the  world  why  I  don't  go." 

"What's  that?  We're  going  away,  and  you 
will  be  all  alone  if  you  don't.  Can't  he  come, 
Cousin  Claudia?  He'd  love  it.  I  know  he  would." 
in 


"I  don't."  Claudia  moved  her  chair  farther 
from  the  firelight.  "Christmas  at  Elmwood 
would  be  punishment  for  a  city  man.  We 
are  much  too  primitive  and  old-fashioned.  He 
would  prefer  New  York." 

' '  Would  you  ?"  Dorothea's  arms  were  around 
her  uncle's  neck,  and  her  head  nodded  at  his. 
"Would  you?" 

"I  would  not."  Laine's  voice  was  a  little 
queer.  "The  punishment  is  all  at  this  end. 
I  would  rather  spend  Christmas  at  Elmwood 
than  anywhere  on  earth.  But  your  Cousin 
Claudia  will  not  let  me,  Dorothea." 

' '  Won't  you  really  ?"  Dorothea  slipped  from 
his'  lap,  and,  with  hands  on  the  arms  of  Claudia's 
chair,  gazed  anxiously  in  her  eyes.  "He'll  be 
all  alone  if  you  don't.  Please  ask  him,  Cousin 
Claudia!  You  said  yourself  there  was  always 
so  much  company  at  Elmwood  that  one  more 
never  mattered  and  you  managed  to  put  them 
somewhere.  Please — oh,  please  ask  him,  Cousin 
Claudia!" 

Claudia  kissed  the  lips  held  close  to  her  own. 
' '  I  think  it  is  time  for  you  to  be  in  bed,  Dorothea. 
You  are  making  your  uncle  say  things  he  doesn't 
mean.  He  can  come  to  Elmwood  if  he  wishes, 
but—" 

112 


AN    INFORMAL    VISIT 

Dorothea  sprang  back  and,  with  arms  ex- 
tended and  fingers  flipping,  danced  round  and 
round  the  room.  "  How  magnificent !  Now  I 
won't  have  a  thing  on  my  mind!"  With  a  last 
whirl  she  jumped  in  Laine's  lap  and  took  his 
hands  in  hers.  "That's  the  only  thing  I  hated 
about  Christmas,  your  being  here  all  by  your- 
self." She  gave  a  deep  breath.  "And  now 
you'll  be  in  that  heavenly  place  with  Cousin 
Claudia.  When  I  get  big  I'm  going  there  and 
hunt  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  and  hear  the 
darkies  sing  when  they're  having  a  party  with 
possum  and  hoe-cake,  and — "  She  sat  up- 
right. "Did  you  know  Cousin  Claudia  was 
going  home  to-morrow?" 

Laine  nodded.  Speech  had  suddenly  left 
him.  He  did  not  know  whether  to  take  Doro- 
thea in  the  next  room  and  lock  her  up  or  hold 
her  close  to  his  heart.  What  had  the  child 
done  and  made  Claudia  do?  Christmas  at 
Elmwood!  His  blood  surged  thickly,  and  as 
Dorothea  settled  back  in  his  arms  he  looked 
up  and  met  Claudia's  eyes. 

"I'm  so  scrumptious  happy  I  feel  like  I'm 
in  heaven!"  Dorothea  wriggled  in  sleepy  con- 
tent. "Please  finish  that  story  you  were  telling 
when  Uncle  Winthrop  came  in,  Cousin  Claudia. 
113 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

You  had  gotten  to  where  the  little  boy  and  the 
little  girl  were  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  big 
house  with  the  wreaths  in  the  windows,  and  it 
was  snowing.  I  couldn't  sleep  to  save  my  life 
if  I  didn't  know  whether  they  got  in  or  not. 
Please  finish  it." 

Claudia  hesitated,  then,  changing  Channing's 
position,  finished  the  story  and  glanced  at  the 
clock.  "It  is  time  for  you  to  be  in  bed,  Doro- 
thea. I  have  some  notes  to  write  and  some 
packing  to — 

"Just  one  more  and  that's  all."  Dorothea 
cuddled  closer.  "It's  so  nice  and  home-y  with 
just  us  in  here.  Please  don't  make  me  go  yet. 
Tell  Uncle  Winthrop  a  story" — she  blinked 
bravely — "and  then  I'll  go — to — bed." 

Laine  leaned  back  and  turned  off  the  light 
from  the  lamp  on  the  table  behind  him,  and  as 
the  firelight  played  on  Claudia's  soft,  blue 
dress,  on  the  slippered  feet  tapping  the  stool 
on  which  they  rested,  ran  up  to  the  open  throat 
and  touched  the  brown  hair,  parted  and 
brushed  back  in  simple  fashion,  he  held  Doro- 
thea close  lest  words  he  must  not  speak  be 
spoken.  Presently  he  looked  toward  her. 

"I  am  waiting,"  he  said.     "Will  you  tell  me 
a  story,  Santa  Claudia?" 
114 


AN    INFORMAL    VISIT 

"A  story?"  Her  eyes  were  watching  the 
curling  flames.  "What  kind  shall  I  tell  you? 
I  do  not  know  the  kind  you  like." 

"I  would  like  any  kind  that  you  would  tell 
me." 

She  leaned  her  head  back  against  the  cush- 
ioned chair,  and  again  her  lashes  seemed  to 
touch  her  cheek.  For  a  moment  the  soft 
silence  was  unbroken,  then  she  turned  her  face 
toward  him. 

"Very  well,"  she  said.  "I  will  tell  you  a 
story.  It  will  be  about  the  man  who  did  not 
know." 


XV 


THE  MAN  WHO  DID  NOT  KNOW 


"O 


NCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  man  who 
had  to  make  a  journey.  He  did  not 
want  very  much  to  make  it ;  and,  not 
knowing  whether  it  was  to  be  a  long 
journey  or  a  short  one,  he  did  not  feel 
a  great  deal  of  interest  in  it.  Still  it 
had  to  be  made,  and  at  its  end  he  was  to  find 
out  whether  he  had  been  a  good  traveler  or  a 
bad  one. 

"For  a  long  time  he  did  not  notice  very  closely 
the  road  he  was  on.  He  had  been  so  busy 
getting  ready,  first  at  school,  where  he  studied 
a  great  many  books  that  he  might  be  better  pre- 
pared for  traveling,  and  then  in  business,  where 
money  must  be  made  to  give  him  comfort  and 
pleasure  on  the  way,  that  he  did  not  have  time 
to  look  around  very  much ;  but  after  a  while  he 
saw  that  the  road  was  getting  very  dull  and 
dusty,  that  most  of  the  flowers  were  faded  and 
116 


HE    DID   NOT    KNOW 

the  fruits  were  not  sweet  and  the  birds  did  not 
sing  as  they  had  sung  when  first  he  started  out. 
•  "A  great  many  people  had  been  traveling  the 
same  way  he  had.  Though  they  seemed  to  be 
having  a  good  time,  he  had  soon  seen  that  most 
of  it  was  make-believe,  and  that  much  of  their 
energy  was  spent  in  trying  to  find  something  to 
play  with,  that  they  might  forget  what  kind  of 
journey  they  were  on.  He  did  not  like  these 
people  very  specially.  He  did  not  know  any 
others,  however,  and  he  had  kept  up  with  them 
because  they  had  started  out  together;  but, 
little  by  little,  he  had  slipped  away  from  them, 
and  after  a  while  he  found  that  he  was  walking 
most  of  the  time  by  himself.  At  first  he  did 
not  mind.  The  things  his  friends  cared  for  and 
talked  about  did  not  greatly  interest  him,  and 
then  it  was  he  began  to  remember  that  a  good 
many  things  he  had  been  passing  were  ugly  and 
cruel,  and  bitter  and  unjust.  He  could  not 
understand  why  some  should  travel  in  luxurious 
ease  while  others  could  hardly  get  along,  their 
burdens  were  so  great;  why  some  rode  in  car- 
riages, and  others,  sick  and  hungry  and  tired  and 
cold,  could  never  stop  lest  they  die  upon  the 
road;  and  why  some  sang  and  others  wept. 
"In  groups  and  pairs,  and  sometimes  one  by 
117 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

one,  they  passed  him,  and  as  they  went  by  he 
would  look  into  their  faces  to  see  why  they  were 
traveling;  but,  like  him,  they  did  not  know,  they 
only  knew  they  must  keep  on.  And  then  one 
day  he  saw  he  had  come  back  to  where  his 
journey  had  begun.  He  had  been  on  the  road 
to  Nowhere — the  road  that  wound  round  and 
round." 

"Just  like  travelers  in  the  desert."  Doro- 
thea's eyes  made  effort  to  open,  but  sleepily 
they  closed  again.  "Why  didn't  he  ask  some- 
body the  way?" 

"He  didn't  think  any  one  knew.  He  was 
much  wiser  than  most  of  the  people  who  passed 
him.  To  many  who  seemed  to  be  in  need  he 
had  given  money;  he  was  very  generous,  very 
kind,  and  he  gave  freely;  but  he  always  turned 
his  head  away  when  he  gave.  He  did  not  like 
to  see  suffering  and  sorrow;  and  with  sin  of 
certain  sorts  he  had  no  sympathy,  and  so  he 
would  not  look.  But  after  a  while  he  had  to  look. 

"He  was  standing  at  the  place  from  which 
he  had  started,  and,  to  his  surprise,  he  saw  what 
he  had  never  seen  before.  Out  from  its  center 
led  all  sorts  of  roads  that  stretched  beyond 
sight,  and  on  each  of  them  people  were  traveling, 
all  kinds  of  people,  and  he  knew  he  could  no 
118 


HE    DID   NOT    KNOW 

longer  stand  still.  He  must  take  one  of  these 
roads,  but  which  one  he  did  not  know.  As  he 
stood  uncertain  what  to  do,  he  felt  some  one 
touch  him;  and,  looking  down,  he  saw  a  child; 
and  into  his  strong  hand  the  child  slipped  his 
little  one. 

'"I  have  been  waiting  for  you,'  he  said.  'I 
have  been  waiting  a  long,  long  time.' 

"'For  me?'  The  man  drew  back.  'You 
can't  have  been  waiting  for  me.  I  do  not  know 
you,  child!' 

"He  heard  a  little  sigh,  as  soft  as  the  stir  of 
wings,  and  again  the  boy  smiled. 

"'But  I  know  you.  There  is  much  for  you 
to  do.' 

"Again  the  man  held  back.  'There  is  noth- 
ing for  me  to  do.  I  pay  my  taxes  and  give  my 
tithes,  and  let  the  world  alone.' 

' ' '  You  cannot  let  the  world  alone.  It  is  your 
world.'  The  boy  looked  up.  'Come,  they  are 
waiting.' 

"'Who  is  waiting?' 

"'Your  people.' 

"  'I  have  no  people.  There  is  no  one  waiting1 
for  me.' 

"The  child  shook  his  head.     'You  do  not 
know  your  people,  and  they  are  waiting.     We 
119 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

must  hurry,  the  time  is  short.  We  will  go  on  this 
road  first,  and  then  on  that,  and  then  on  that  and 
that  and  that.  On  each  one  they  are  waiting.' 

"All  through  the  night  they  traveled,  uphill 
and  down,  and  in  and  out  of  narrow  paths  and 
hidden  places,  and  everywhere  he  saw  them,  the 
people  he  had  never  known.  Into  the  darkness 
of  pits  and  mines,  into  the  fires  of  foundries  and 
furnaces,  into  the  factories  where  wheels  turned 
night  and  day,  and  into  the  holds  of  the  ships 
of  the  sea,  the  child  led  him  to  show  him  the 
people  who  were  his.  In  cellars  and  garrets,  in 
jails  and  prisons,  in  shops  and  stores,  in  hunger 
and  cold,  in  the  silence  of  sickness,  the  noise  of 
sin,  they  were  waiting  for  his  coming;  and  in 
their  faces  was  that  which  made  him  cover  his, 
and  he  begged  the  child  to  take  him  where 
breath  could  come  again. 

"But  the  child  held  his  hand  still  tighter. 
'You  have  traveled  long  and  you  have  not 
known, '  he  said.  'You  helped  to  make  things 
as  they  are,  and  now  you  must  see.' 

'"I  helped  to  make  things  as  they  are?  I 
have  not  even  dreamed  such  things  could  be !' 

'"I  know.  And  that  is  why  I  came.  They 
are  your  people;  and  you  did  not  know.' 

"And  then  the  child  took  him  on  another 

120 


HE    DID    NOT    KNOW 

road,  one  that  was  smooth  and  soft,  and  the 
air  that  blew  over  it  was  warm  and  fragrant. 
On  it  the  women  wore  jewels  and  laces  and 
gorgeous  gowns;  and  men  threw  gold  away  to 
see  it  shine  in  the  sunlight,  threw  it  that  others 
might  see  them  throw. 

'"Why  do  we  come  here?'  the  man  asked. 
'They  are  not  waiting.  They  do  not  need.' 

"The  child  looked  up  in  his  face.  'They, 
too,  are  waiting — for  some  one  to  let  them  know. 
And  they,  too,  need,  for  hearts  hurt  everywhere. 
Sometimes  the  loneliest  ones  are  here.' 

"Before  answer  could  be  made,  the  main 
road  was  left,  and  in  a  tiny  by-path  they  heard 
the  laughter  of  children's  voices;  and,  looking 
ahead,  they  saw  a  little  house  with  wreaths  in 
the  windows  through  which  the  glow  of  fire- 
light sent  threads  of  dancing  light  upon  the 
snow,  and  the  door  was  open. 

"We  will  go  in,'  said  the  child,  'for  there  is 
welcome.' 

' '  Inside,  the  mother  and  the  father  and  all  the 
children  were  hanging  holly  on  the  walls  and 
bringing  bundles  and  boxes  and  queer-shaped 
packages  from  the  other  rooms  and  hiding  them 
under  chairs  and  tables  and  in  out-of-the-way 
places;  and  presently  a  row  of  stockings  was 

9  121 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

hung  from  the  chimneypiece,  and  the  children 
clapped  their  hands  and  danced  round  and 
round  the  room.  And  then  they  threw  their 
arms  around  their  father  and  mother  and  kissed 
them  good  night  and  left  them  that  Kris 
Kringle  might  come  in. 

"'They  have  no  money,  but  are  very  rich,' 
said  the  child.  'They  love  much.' 

"Over  long  roads  and  short  ones,  over  some 
that  were  dark  and  some  that  were  bright,  they 
went  their  way,  and  presently  they  came  to  a 
shabby,  snow-covered  street  where  children  were 
pressing  their  faces  against  shop-windows,  and 
men  and  women  were  hurrying  in  and  out  of 
crowded  stores;  and  the  child  loosened  his  hold 
upon  the  man's  hand.  'I  must  go  now,'  he  said. 

" '  Oh  no,  you  must  not  go !'  Quickly  the  man 
reached  for  him.  'You  must  not  go.  I  do  not 
even  know  your  name!' 

"The  child  shook  his  head.  'I  cannot  stay. 
And  some  day  you  will  know  my  name.' 

'"But  why  did  you  come?  If  you  must 
leave  me,  why  did  you  come?' 

"'Why  did  I  come?'  In  the  crowd  he  was 
slipping  away,  but  the  light  in  his  face  streamed 
through  it.  'I  came  to  bring  Good- Will  to  men. 
I  came  that  Men  might  Know.' ' 

122 


XVI 


A   CHANGE    OF   PLANS 

HEN  Moses  saw  Mr.  Laine  hurrying 
from  one  side  of  his  bedroom  to  the 
other,  opening  bureau  drawers  and 
closet  doors  and  throwing  things  on 
floor  and  bed  in  an  excited  haste  never 
seen  before,  he  was  convinced  that 
something  was  the  matter  with  his  master's 
mind.  It  had  happened  very  suddenly.  He 
had  eaten  his  dinner,  but  eaten  so  little  that 
Caddie,  the  cook,  was  in  angry  tears.  For  days 
her  finest  efforts  had  been  ignored,  and  tempta- 
tion after  temptation,  triumphs  of  skill  on  her 
part,  had  come  back  barely  tasted,  and,  what 
was  worse,  with  no  comment  made  upon  them. 
Praise  had  hitherto  never  been  withheld,  and 
to  please  him  no  labor  was  too  great,  no  time  too 
precious  to  be  expended ;  but  if  this  was  what 
she  was  to  get —  Caddie  was  Irish,  and  she 
threw  birds  and  sweetbreads  in  the  slop-can 
and  slammed  the  door  in  Moses's  face. 
123 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

"No,  siree!  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  let  white  folks' 
eatin's  go  in  black  folks'  stomachs,  that  I  ain't !" 
she  said,  and  shook  both  fists  up  at  the  ceiling. 
"Pigs  can  have  it  first;  there's  some  reason  for 
pigs,  but  that  nigger  man  Moses!"  Her  nose 
went  up,  her  head  went  back,  and  she  wept 
aloud.  The  work  of  her  hands  was  as  naught. 
She  would  die  and  be  buried  before  Moses 
should  have  it! 

At  his  coffee  Laine  had  asked  for  his  mail, 
asked  it  to  get  Moses  out  of  the  room.  A 
creature  who  smiled  always  was  not  always  to 
be  endured,  and  to-night  he  was  in  no  mood  for 
smiles. 

Moses  brought  two  letters.  "These  is  all," 
he  said. 

Laine  waved  him  out  and  opened  the  top 
one,  which  was  from  Dorothea.  What  a  queer 
propensity  the  child  had  for  writing!  Elbow 
on  the  table  and  cigar  in  hand,  he  began  to  read 
indifferently ;  but  in  a  moment  his  hand  stiffened 
and  his  face  whitened  to  the  lips,  and,  half  aloud, 
he  read  it  again. 

DEAR  UNCLE  WINTHROP, — I  forgot  to  tell  you  some- 
thing the  other  night.     I   told  you  once  that   Cousin 
Claudia's  sweetheart  was  that   Washington  man.    He 
isn't.    I  asked  her  and  she  said  he  wasn't.    I  asked  hej: 
124 


A    CHANGE   OF    PLANS 

if  she  was  going  to  marry  him  and  she  said  she  was  not. 
I  don't  like  to  say  things  that  aren't  true  and  that's  why 
I'm  telling  you.     Miss  Robin  French  thinks  she  knows 
everything.     We  are  going  away  to-morrow. 
Your  loving  niece, 

DOROTHEA. 

P.  S. — When  a  lady  gets  married  she  has  to  go  away 
with  a  man,  don't  she?  That's  why  she  isn't  going  to  get 
married.  She  says  she  loves  Elmwood  better  than  any 
kind  of  man  she's  seen  yet.  I'm  so  glad,  aren't  you? 

D. 

For  half  a  moment  longer  Laine  stared  at  the 
paper  in  his  hand,  then,  with  the  cigar,  it  fell 
to  the  floor,  and  he  lifted  his  head  as  if  for 
breath.  Something  had  snapped,  something 
that  had  been  tense  and  tight,  and  his  throat 
seemed  closing.  Presently  his  face  dropped  in 
his  arms.  What  a  fool  he  had  been!  He  had 
let  the  prattle  of  a  child  torture  and  torment 
him  and  keep  him  silent,  and  now  she  was  gone. 
After  a  while  he  raised  his  head  and  wiped  his 
hands,  which  were  moist;  and,  as  he  saw  the 
writing  on  the  letter  beside  him,  his  heart  gave 
a  click  so  queer  that  he  looked  around  to  see 
if  the  door  was  shut.  Quickly  he  opened  the 
envelope  and  tried  to  read:  he  couldn't  see;  the 
words  ran  into  each  other,  and,  going  over  to  a 
side  light,  he  held  the  paper  close  to  it. 
125 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

DEAR  MR.  LAINE, — Ours  is  a  very  old-fashioned,  country 
Christmas,  but  we  will  be  glad  to  have  you  spend  it  with 
us  if  you  have  not  made  other  arrangements.  Uncle 
Bushrod  and  I  will  be  at  the  wharf  Wednesday  to  meet 
the  boat  from  Fredericksburg,  and  if  you  are  on  it  we  will 
bring  you  home  with  us,  and  if  not  we  will  be  sorry,  so 
come  if  you  can.  One  or  two  other  friends  are  coming 
that  day,  but  most  of  our  guests  are  here.  All  the  trains 
from  the  North  stop  at  Fredericksburg,  and  the  boat  that 
goes  down  the  river  leaves  any  time  after  2  P.M.,  the  hour 
of  leaving  depending  upon  the  amount  of  freight,  the 
convenience  of  the  passengers,  and  the  readiness  of  the 
captain.  As  there's  a  boat  only  three  times  a  week  you 
can't  get  here  in  time  for  Christmas  unless  you  make  the 
Tuesday  boat  which  should  reach  Brooke  Bank,  that's 
our  landing,  by  ten  o'clock  Wednesday  morning.  Do 
come  if  you  can. 

Sincerely,  CLAUDIA  KEITH. 

' '  If  I  can !  //  /  can  /"  With  a  sudden  move- 
ment of  his  hand  the  letter  was  put  in  one 
pocket,  his  watch  taken  out  of  another,  and 
the  button  under  the  light  pressed  violently. 
It  was  eight  -  forty  -  five.  The  last  train  for 
Washington  left  at  twelve-thirty,  and  a  local 
from  there  reached  Fredericksburg  at  nine- 
twenty-four  the  next  morning.  He  knew  the 
schedules  well.  "I  have  three  hours  and  forty- 
five  minutes,"  he  said,  under  his  breath.  "I'd 
make  it  if  there  were  but  the  forty-five  minutes 
—if  there  were  but  ten." 
126 


A    CHANGE    OF    PLANS 

And  then  it  was  that  Moses,  coming  in  an- 
swer to  the  bell,  concluded  that  his  master  was 
not  himself.  He  had  left  him  a  few  minutes 
before,  unapproachable  in  his  silence,  unappre- 
ciative  of  his  efforts  to  please  and  provide,  and 
now  he  was  giving  so  many  orders  at  once,  call- 
ing for  this  and  for  that,  pulling  out  clothes  and 
pushing  them  back,  that  Moses,  who  hated  to 
be  hurried  as  only  his  race  can  hate,  stood  help- 
less, knowing  only  that  something  had  hap- 
pened, something  he  did  not  understand. 

"Did  you  say  your  riding-clothes,  sir?"  he 
asked,  holding  a  dress-shirt  in  his  hand.  ' '  Or 
did  you  say— 

"I  don't  know  what  I  said."  Laine  knocked 
over  a  box  of  handkerchiefs  and  threw  a  white 
vest  on  the  bed.  "Where  are  my  shaving 
things?  I  told  you  I  didn't  want  a  trunk. 
Take  the  durned  thing  away.  I'll  break  my 
neck  over  it !  Where  is  that  English  bag — the 
big  one  ?  Get  it,  will  you,  and  put  in  my  riding- 
clothes,  evening  clothes,  and  one  other  suit; 
put  in  the  things  I  need.  You've  packed  it 
often  enough.  Call  up  Jerdone's  private  num- 
ber, and  tell  him  I  want  all  the  flowers  he's  got. 
Get  a  move  on  you,  Moses.  If  you're  paralyzed 
tell  me;  if  not— 

127 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

"No,  sir.  I  ain't  paralyzed.  I  just  demor- 
alized. Suddenness  always  did  upset  me.  At 
dinner  you  look  like  you  just  as  lief  be  dead  as 
livin',  and  now— 

"You  or  I  will  be  dead  if  I  miss  that  twelve- 
thirty  train.  Have  you  called  the  cab?" 

"No,  sir.     I  ain't  called  no  cab.     You  ain't 
never    call    the    word    cab.      You    mean — 
Moses's   hands   dropped   limply   at    his    side. 
"You  mean  you're  goin'  away  for  Christmas?" 

"That's  what  I  mean!"  Laine's  voice  was 
exultant,  revealing,  and  he  coughed  to  hide  its 
ring.  "By  the  way,  Moses,  why  don't  you  go 
home  for  Christmas  ?  Didn't  you  tell  me  once 
you  came  from  Virginia?  What  part?" 

"Palmyra,  sir.  In  Fluvanna  County,  that's 
where  I  come  from.  Excuse  me,  but  I  bound 
to  set  down.  Go  home?  Me  go  home?  I 
couldn't  git  there  and  back  not  to  save  my  life 
for  lessen  than  twenty-five  dollars,  and  till  I 
git  that  farm  paid  for  what  I  been  buyin'  to 
go  back  to  and  die  on  I  can't  go  nowhere. 
That  I  can't." 

Laine  looked  up  from  the  collection  of  collars, 
cravats,  and  cuffs  he  was  sorting.  "Is  it  the 
money  that's  keeping  you  back,  or  is  it  you 
don't  want  to  go?" 

128 


A   CHANGE    OF    PLANS 

"Don't  want  to  go!"  The  palms  of  Moses's 
hands  came  together,  opened,  and  came  back. 
"Yesterday  I  near  'bout  bus'  open  with  wantin' 
to  go.  My  mother  she's  near  'bout  eighty,  and 
she  got  Miss  Lizzie  to  write  me  and  beg  me  to 
come  for  this  here  Christmas.  Miss  Lizzie  is  old 
Major  Pleasants's  youngest  old-maid  daughter. 
He's  got  three  of  'em.  He  was  my  mother's 
marster,  old  Major  Pleasants  was,  and  he  sold 
me  the  land  my  mother's  livin'  on  now.  He 
didn't  charge  nothin'  much  for  it,  but  I  had  to 
have  a  house  built,  and  buy  some  pigs  and  some 
furniture  and  git  a  cow,  and  I  bought  two  of 
them  street-car  mules  what  was  in  Richmond 
when  they  put  the  'lectric  cars  on  down  there. 
'T'was  the  first  city  in  the  United  States  to  have 
'em,  Richmond  was.  They  thought  them  mules 
was  wore  out,  but  there  ain't  no  friskier  ones  in 
the  county  than  they  is,  I  tell  you  now.  I  ain't 
been  home  for  four  years— 

"And  your  mother  is  eighty?" 

"Yes,  sir,  that's  what  they  tell  me,  though 
she  say  she  don't  know  herself  'ceptin'  she  had 
four  chillern  which  was  good  size  when  the  war 
broke  out.  I  belong  to  the  second  crop.  My 
mother  done  had  nineteen  chillern,  the  triflinest, 
good-for-nothin'est  lot  the  Lord  ever  let  live 
129 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

on  this  earth,  if  I  do  say  it,  and  ain't  a  one  of 
'em  what  does  a  thing  for  her,  savin'  'tis  me  and 
Eliza — Eliza  she's  my  sister  and  lives  with 
her." 

"And  you'd  like  to  spend  Christmas  with 
your  mother,  you  say?" 

In  the  years  of  his  service  Moses  had  never 
before  mentioned  family  matters,  but,  having 
started,  he  was  not  likely  to  stop,  and  Laine 
was  forced  to  interrupt. 

"Yes,  sir.  This  Christmas  I  would.  Some 
other  Christmases  I  wouldn't,  'count  of  a  yaller 
girl  what  lived  on  the  next  place.  It  was  in  the 
summer-time,  the  last  time  I  was  home,  and, 
she  bein'  a  likely-lookin'  girl,  I  seen  right  much 
of  her  every  now  and  then,  and  I  just  talk  along 
and  tell  her  'bout  New  York  and  what  a  grand, 
lonely  place  it  was,  and  how  my  heart  got 
hongry  for  my  own  people,  and — things  like  that, 
you  know,  but  I  didn't  mean  nothin'  serious  or 
have  any  matrimony  ideas,  and  first  thing  I 
know  she  done  had  me  engaged  to  her.  She 
chase  me  near  'bout  to  death,  that  girl  did,  but 
Miss  Lizzie  say  she  gone  away  now  and  I  can 
come  in  peace." 

Laine  took  out  his  pocket-book,  put  some 
notes  in  an  envelope,  and  handed  it  to  Moses. 
130 


A    CHANGE    OF    PLANS 

"This  is  for  your  ticket  and  to  get  some  things 
to  take  to  your  mother,"  he  said.  "Be  back  by 
the  thirtieth,  and  hurry  and  call  that  cab  for 
the  twelve- thirty  train.  I've  some  letters  to 
write  before  I  leave,  and  there's  no  time  to  lose. 
Tell  Caddie  I  want  to  see  her,  and  don't  forget 
about  that  Reilley  family,  and  see  that  every- 
thing gets  to  them  in  good  shape — a  good  dinner 
and  all  the  bundles  and  plenty  for  the  stockings. 
Tell  Caddie  I'm  waiting." 

Later  on,  in  the  library,  Laine  sealed  his  last 
letter  and  put  it  on  the  pile  Moses  was  to  mail 
in  the  morning.  Perhaps  he  had  been  a  little 
rash  this  Christmas.  Well,  suppose  he  had. 
The  boys  in  the  office  had  done  well  through  the 
year  and  ought  to  be  told  so.  By  itself  a  check 
was  a  pretty  cold  thing,  and  the  words  he  had 
written  to  each  had  been  honestly  meant.  And 
Miss  Button,  his  stenographer,  needed  a  little 
trip.  Ten  days  at  Atlantic  City  with  her 
mother  would  pull  her  up.  She  had  been 
looking  badly  lately — worried  about  her  mother, 
Weeks  had  told  him.  Pity  she  was  so  homely. 
It  was  pretty  unfair  the  way  women  had  to  work 
at  both  ends  of  the  line.  Weeks,  too,  could  get 
his  wife  that  fur  coat  he'd  been  wanting  her 
to  have  for  three  years.  What  an  honest  old 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

duck  Weeks  was ! — and  who  would  ever  believe 
him  as  full  of  sentiment  as  a  boy  of  twenty? 
He  had  overheard  him  talking  to  Miss  Button 
about  the  coat  that  morning.  Fifteen  years 
Weeks  had  been  his  secretary,  but  to-night  was 
the  first  time  he  had  ever  told  him  in  actual 
words  of  his  appreciation  of  his  faithful  service. 
"I  wouldn't  want  a  million  if  it  didn't  have 
some  love  with  it,"  Claudia  had  said  to  him,  and 
before  his  half-closed  eyes  she  seemed  to  stand 
in  front  of  him. 

"They  are  her  gifts,"  he  said.     "I  was  blind, 
and  she  has  made  me  see." 


XVII 


N 


A   VISIT   TO   VIRGINIA 

OT  until  he  was  settled  in  the  car  did 
Laine  let  himself  take  in  the  meaning 
of  the  journey  he  was  taking.  The 
past  few  hours  had  been  too  hurried 
to  think ;  but  as  he  sat  in  the  smoking- 
compartment  thought  was  no  longer 
to  be  held  in  abeyance,  and  he  yielded  to  it  with 
no  effort  at  restraint. 

Sleep  was  impossible.  The  train,  due  at 
Washington  at  seven-twelve,  would  there  have 
to  be  changed  to  a  local  for  Fredericksburg,  but 
the  early  rising  was  no  hardship.  To  sit  up  all 
night  would  have  been  none.  Each  turn  of  the 
wheel  was  taking  him  nearer  and  nearer,  and  to 
listen  to  them  was  strange  joy.  Only  that  morn- 
ing he  had  wished  Christmas  was  over,  had  in- 
deed counted  the  days  before  business  could 
again  absorb,  and  now  every  hour  would  be  price- 
less, every  moment  to  be  held  back  hungrily. 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

One  by  one,  the  days  in  which  he  had  seen 
Claudia  passed  in  review  before  him.  The  turn 
of  her  head,  the  light  on  her  hair,  the  poise  of 
her  body  on  her  horse,  bits  of  gay  talk,  the  few 
long  quiet  ones,  the  look  of  eyes  unafraid  of  life, 
light  laughter,  and  sometimes  quick  frown  and 
quicker  speech,  and,  clearest  of  all,  the  evening 
in  which  she  had  told  him  the  story,  with  Chan- 
ning  in  her  arms  and  Dorothea  in  his.  There 
had  been  few  waking  moments  in  which  it  had 
not  repeated  itself  to  him,  and  in  his  dreams 
the  scene  would  change  and  the  home  would 
be  theirs — his  home  and  hers — and  she  would  be 
telling  him  again  what  life  should  mean. 

He  had  long  known  the  name  of  the  land  in 
which  he  lived.  It  was,  indeed,  a  Lonely  Land ; 
but  that  it  was  of  his  own  choosing  he  had  not 
understood,  nor  had  he  cared  to  think  all 
people  were  his  people.  There  was  much  that 
he  must  know.  He  needed  help,  needed  it 
infinitely.  If  she  would  give  it —  A  man,  reel- 
ing slightly,  came  in  the  compartment,  and, 
getting  up,  Laine  went  out  quickly.  For  a  few 
moments  he  stood  in  the  vestibule  and  let  the 
air  from  a  partly  open  door  blow  over  him,  then, 
with  a  glance  at  the  stars,  turned  and  came 
inside. 


A   VISIT   TO   VIRGINIA 

At  Fredericksburg  the  next  morning  Laine 
turned  to  the  negro  hackman,  who,  with 
Chesterfieldian  bows,  was  hovering  over  his 
baggage  and  boxes,  and  made  inquiries  of  the 
boat,  the  time  of  leaving,  of  a  hotel,  of  what 
there  was  to  see  during  the  hours  of  waiting; 
and  before  he  understood  how  it  happened  he 
found  himself  and  his  paraphernalia  in  the 
shabby  old  hack  and  was  told  he  would  be 
taken  to  the  boat  at  once.  He  had  never  been 
to  Virginia,  had  never  seen  a  specimen  of 
human  nature  such  as  now  flourished  a  whip  in 
one  hand  and  with  the  other  waved  a  battered 
and  bruised  silk  hat  toward  the  muddy  street 
that  led  from  the  station  to  the  town  above,  and 
with  puzzled  eyes  he  looked  at  the  one  before 
him. 

"Yas,  suh!  I  knows  jes'  exactly  what  'tis 
you  want  to  be  doin',  suh.  You  jes'  set  yourself 
right  back  in  the  carridge  and  I'll  take  you  and 
the  baggige  right  down  to  the  boat  and  put  '^em 
in  for  you,  and  then  me  and  you'll  go  round  and 
see  this  heah  town.  I  reckon  you  ain't  never 
been  to  this  place  before.  Is  you  all  right  now, 
suh?"  The  once  shiny  hat  was  put  on  the 
back  of  the  grizzled  gray  head,  a  worn  and  torn 
robe  was  tucked  around  Laine's  knees,  and  be- 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

fore  answer  could  be  made  the  driver  was  on 
the  box,  the  whip  was  cracked,  and  two  sleepy 
old  horses  began  the  slight  incline  of  the  long 
street  out  of  which  they  presently  turned  to  go 
to  the  wharf  and  the  boat  tied  loosely  to  it. 

Half  an  hour  later,  bags  and  boxes  having 
been  stored  in  a  state-room,  a  hasty  survey  of 
the  boat  made,  and  a  few  words  exchanged  with 
a  blue-coated  man  of  friendly  manners  con- 
cerning the  hour  of  departure,  Laine  again 
got  in  the  old  ramshackle  hack  and  for  two 
hours  was  shown  the  honors  and  glories  of  the 
little  town  which  had  hitherto  been  but  a  name 
and  forever  after  was  to  be  a  smiling  memory. 
Snow  and  slush  covered  its  sidewalks,  mud  was 
deep  in  the  middle  of  the  streets,  but  the  air 
went  to  the  head  with  its  stinging  freshness,  the 
sun  shone  brilliantly,  and  in  the  faces  of  the 
people  was  happy  content. 

Reins  dropped  loosely  in  his  lap,  Beauregarde, 
the  driver,  sat  sideways  on  the  box  and  emitted 
information  in  terms  of  his  own;  and  Laine 
looked  and  listened  in  silent  joy  to  statements 
made  and  the  manner  of  their  making. 

"  Yas,  suh,  this  heah  town  am  second  only  in 
historic  con-se-quence  to  Williamsburg,  suh, 
though  folks  don't  know  it  till  they  come  and 
136 


A   VISIT   TO   VIRGINIA 

find  it  out  from  me.  I  been  a-drivin'  this  heah 
hack  and  a-studyin'  of  history  for  more'n  forty 
years,  and  I  ain't  hardly  scratch  the  skin  of  what 
done  happen  heah  before  a  Yankee  man  was 
ever  thought  of.  They  didn't  use  to  have  no 
Yankees  'fore  the  war,  but  they  done  propogate 
themselves  so  all  over  the  land  that  they  clean 
got  possession  of  'most  all  of  it.  They's  worse 
than  them  little  English  sparrows,  they  tell  me. 
Marse  George  Washington  he  used  to  walk 
these  streets  on  his  way  to  school.  He  had  to 
cross  the  river  from  Ferry  Farm  over  yonder" 
—the  whip  was  waved  vaguely  in  the  air — "and 
he  wore  long  trousers  till  he  got  to  be  a  man. 
Young  folks  didn't  use  to  show  their  legs  in 
those  days,  suh,  jes'  gentlemen.  That  place 
we're  comin'  to  is  Swan  Tavern,  and  if  it  could 
talk  it  could  tell  things  that  big  men  said,  that 
it  could.  This  heah  house  is  where  Mis'  Mary, 
the  mother  of  Marse  George  Washington,  used 
to  live  when  she  got  too  old  to  boss  the  farm. 
Some  society  owns  it  what  was  originated  to 
preserve  our  Virginia  iniquities,  and  they  done 
put  up  a  monument  to  her  that's  the  onliest  one 
ever  put  up  to  a  woman  for  being  the  mother  of 
a  man.  They  was  bus  head  people,  the 
Washingtons  was,  but  so  was  a  lot  of  others  who 
10  137 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

didn't  do  nothin'  to  prove  it,  and  so  is  now  for- 
got, and  quality  folks  in  them  days  was  so 
thick  there  warn't  enough  other  kind  to  do 
'em  reverence.  Governor  Spottswood  and  his 
Horse-Shoe  gentlemen  took  dinner  once  in  this 
heah  town,  and  President  James  Monroe  used 
to  live  heah.  I'm  a-goin'  to  show  you  his  home 
and  his  office,  presently,  and  the  house  where 
Marse  Paul  Jones  used  to  live  in.  I  reckon  you 
done  heard  tell  of  Marse  John  Paul  Jones,  ain't 
you?" 

Laine  admitted  having  heard  of  him,  but 
historic  personages  did  not  interest  as  much  as 
present-day  ones.  The  occupants  of  certain 
quaint  and  charming  old  houses,  with  servants' 
quarters  in  the  rear  and  flower-filled  gardens  in 
the  front,  the  rose-bushes  of  which  were  now 
bent  and  burdened  with  snow,  appealed,  as  the 
other  places  of  famous  associations  failed  to  do, 
and  he  wondered  in  which  of  them  Claudia's 
relatives  lived. 

At  Marye's  Heights  Beauregarde  waxed  elo- 
quent. Half  of  what  he  said  was  unheard,  how- 
ever, and  as  Laine 's  eyes  swept  the  famous 
battle-fields  his  forehead  wrinkled  in  fine  folds. 
Could  they  have  been  settled  in  any  other  way — 
those  questions  which  had  torn  a  nation's  heart 
138 


A   VISIT   TO   VIRGINIA 

from  its  bosom?  Would  the  spilling  of  blood 
be  forever  necessary?  He  ordered  Beaure- 
garde  to  drive  to  the  hotel.  There  was  just 
time  for  lunch,  and  then  the  boat  which  would 
take  him  down  the  river  to  where  Claudia 
would  be  waiting. 

As  the  boat  swung  off  from  the  wharf  and 
slowly  made  its  way  down  the  narrow  river, 
curving  like  a  horse-shoe  around  its  ice-bound 
banks,  Laine,  standing  in  the  bow,  scanned  the 
scene  closely,  and  wondered  if  it  were  but 
yesterday  that  he  had  been  in  the  rush  and  stir 
of  city  life.  Straight  up  from  the  water  the 
bluff  rose  boldly.  Rays  of  pale  sunlight  sent 
threads  of  rainbow  colors  on  the  snow  which 
covered  it,  and  through  the  crystal-coated  trees, 
here  and  there,  a  stately  mansion  could  be  seen 
overlooking  the  river.  Skimming  the  water,  a 
sea-gull  would  now  and  then  dip  and  splash  and 
rise  again  in  the  clear,  cold  air,  and,  save  for  the 
throb  of  the  engine,  there  was  no  sound. 

Until  the  sun  had  set  and  darkness  made 
farther  scanning  of  banks  and  bluff  and  winding 
river  impossible,  Laine  walked  the  deck,  hands 
in  pockets,  and  thought  of  the  morrow  and  the 
days  ahead.  The  boat  would  tie  up  for  the 
night  at  Pratt's  Wharf  and  was  due  at  ten  the 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

next  morning  at  Brooke  Bank  if  there  was  no 
unusual  delay.  Suddenly  he  remembered  she 
had  said  other  friends  would  be  on  the  boat. 
Most  of  the  passengers  were  obviously  return- 
ing home  from  a  shopping  trip  to  the  city,  pack- 
age-laden and  bundle-burdened,  but  two  city 
men  he  had  noticed  and  then  forgotten  in  the 
thought  of  other  things.  Who  were  they? 
He  opened  the  door  of  the  stuffy  little  cabin  and 
went  in.  Five  minutes  later  he  was  at  the 
supper-table  and  next  to  the  two  men  who  were 
talking  in  undertones  of  former  Christmases  at 
Elm  wood.  They  were  young,  good-looking, 
and  of  Claudia's  world.  He  got  up  and  again 
went  out. 


XVIII 


ELMWOOD 

OR  some  time  Laine  had  seen  Claudia. 
Walking  up  and  down  the  little  wharf 
at  the  end  of  the  long  bridge,  railless 
and  narrow,  which  ran  far  out  into  the 
river,  her  hands  in  her  muff,  the 
collar  of  her  fur  coat  turned  up,  her 
face  unprotected  by  the  brown  veil  which  tied 
down  securely  the  close-fitting  hat,  he  had  seen 
her  a  long  way  off,  and  as  she  waved  her  hand 
in  greeting  he  lifted  his  hat  and  waved  it  in 
return. 

A  few  minutes  later  he  was  shaking  hands 
with  her,  with  her  uncle,  with  his  two  fellow- 
passengers,  with  a  number  of  other  people,  and 
everybody  was  talking  at  once.  Those  on  the 
wharf  were  calling  out  to  those  on  the  boat,  and 
those  on  the  boat  were  making  inquiries  of,  or 
sending  messages  by  those  on  the  wharf,  and 
not  until  Laine's  hands  were  again  shaken  well 
141 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

by  Claudia's  uncle  as  the  Essex  drew  off,  did 
he  understand  just  who  was  his  host. 

"A  hearty  welcome  to  Virginia,  sir!  A 
hearty  welcome!  We're  happy  to  have  you  in 
our  home !  Here,  Claudia,  you  drive  Mr.  Laine 
in  the  small  sleigh,  and  I'll  take  the  boys  in  the 
big  one.  Are  you  ready?  Look  at  that  rascal 
Jim  dancing  a  horn-pipe  instead  of  filling  that 
wagon!  We're  glad  to  know  you,  sir,  glad  to 
have  you!"  And  for  the  third  time  Laine's 
hands  were  shaken  well  by  the  ruddy-faced, 
white-haired  old  gentleman,  with  the  twinkling, 
faded  blue  eyes,  and  old-fashioned  clothes; 
shaken  until  they  hurt.  He  was  no  longer  a 
stranger.  The  touch  of  hands,  the  sound  of 
voice,  and  a  something  without  name  had  made 
him  one  of  them,  and  that  of  which  he  had  once 
been  doubtful  he  knew  was  true. 

Ahead  of  them  his  fellow-travelers,  one  a 
Keith  cousin  and  the  other  a  friend,  waved  back 
and  disappeared  in  a  bend  of  the  road;  and  as 
Claudia  took  up  the  reins  he  turned  toward  her. 

' '  Have  you  been  waiting  long  ?  Are  you  sure 
you  are  not  cold?"  he  asked. 

"Cold!  On  a  day  like  this?"  The  color  in 
her  face  was  brilliant.  "We  don't  often  have 
weather  of  this  sort,  and  to  stay  indoors  is 
142 


ELMWOOD 

impossible.  I  love  it!  It's  so  Christmasy,  if  it 
isn't  Southern.  Did  you  have  a  very  dreadful 
trip  down  ?  It  takes  courage  to  make  it." 

"Courage!"  He  laughed  and  tucked  the 
robe  closer  around  her.  "It  was  the  most 
interesting  trip  I  ever  took.  This  is  a  very 
beautiful  country." 

"We  think  it  is."  She  turned  slightly  and 
looked  around  her.  The  road  from  the  boat- 
landing  wound  gradually  up  the  incline  to  the 
ridge  above  the  river;  and  as  they  reached  its 
top  the  view  of  the  latter  was  unbroken,  and 
broad  and  blue  it  stretched  between  its  snow- 
clad  banks,  serene  and  silent. 

Laine's  eyes  swept  the  scene  before  him. 
The  brilliant  sunshine  on  field  and  river  and 
winding  road  for  a  moment  was  blinding.  The 
biting  air  stung  his  face,  and  life  seemed  sud- 
denly a  splendid,  joyous  thing.  The  girl  beside 
him  was  looking  ahead,  as  if  at  something  to  be 
seen  there;  and  again  he  turned  to  her. 

"You  love  it  here?" 

"Love  it?"  Her  eyes  were  raised  to  his. 
"Everything  in  it,  of  it,  about  it!"  With  her 
left  hand  she  brushed  away  the  strands  of  hair 
the  wind  had  blown  across  her  eyes.  "It  is 
my  home." 


THE   MAN   IN   LONELY   LAND 

"A  woman  can  make  a  home  anywhere.  A 
man— 

"No,  she  can't— that  is,  I  couldn't.  I'd 
smother  in  New  York.  It  is  wonderful  to  go 
to.  I  love  its  stir  and  color  and  the  splendid 
things  it  is  doing;  but  you  can't  listen  to  the 
wind  in  the  trees,  or  watch  the  stars  come  out, 
or  let  your  other  self  have  a  chance."  She 
turned  to  him.  "We're  very  slow  and  queer 
down  here.  Are  you  sure  you  won't  mind 
coming  for  Christmas?" 

Laine  leaned  forward  and  straightened  the 
robe,  and  out  of  his  face  the  color  faded.  He 
was  only  one  of  the  several  guests.  "You  are 
very  good  to  let  me  come,"  he  said,  quietly. 
"I  have  not  thanked  you.  I  don't  know  how 
to  thank  you.  Christmas  by  one's  self— 

"Is  unrighteous!"  She  nodded  gaily  and 
touched  the  horse  with  the  whip.  "There's 
Elmwood!  There's  my  home!  Please  like 
Virginia,  Mr.  Vermont  man!" 

Before  he  could  answer,  the  sleigh  stopped  at 
the  entrance  to  the  road  leading  to  the  big 
house,  and  at  the  door  of  the  little  lodge  by 
the  always -open  gate  stood  a  short,  stout 
colored  woman,  hands  on  her  hips,  and  on  her 
head  a  gaily  colored  kerchief. 
144 


ELMWOOD 

Laine  was  introduced.  Mammy  Malaprop 
was  known  by  reputation,  but  no  words  could 
make  of  Malaprop  a  picture,  and  in  deep  de- 
light Laine  watched  her  as  she  curtsied  in  a 
manner  all  her  own. 

"How  you  do,  suh!  How  you  do!  A 
superfluous  Christmas  to  you,  suh!  I'm  sorry 
you  didn't  git  heah  'fore  de  war.  Livin'  now- 
adays ain't  more'n  shucks  from  de  corn  of 
what  it  used  to  be.  Is  dey  all  heah  now,  Miss 
Claudia?" 

"I  believe  so.  I  am  going  to  bring  Mr. 
Laine  down  for  some  hoe-cakes  and  buttermilk 
after  Christmas,  and  you  might  tell  him  some 
of  the  stories  you  used  to  tell  us  when  we  were 
children.  He  lives  in  New  York,  and — •" 

"He  do!  I  hope  he  got  himself  petrified  on 
the  way  down,  for  they  tell  me  'tis  a  den  of 
promiscuity,  and  all  the  nations  of  the  earth 
done  took  their  seats  in  it.  I  knowed  a  woman 
who  lived  there  once.  She  near  'bout  work  her- 
self to  death,  and  she  say  she  couldn't  have 
stood  it  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  hopes  of  a 
glorious  immorality  what  was  awaitin'  her 
when  she  died — "  And  Mammy  Malaprop 's 
hands  waved  cheerfully  until  the  sleigh  was 
lost  to  sight. 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

From  the  public  road  skirting  the  Elmwood 
land  the  private  one,  tree-bordered  by  century- 
old  elms,  leading  to  the  terraced  lawn,  wound 
for  some  three-quarters  of  a  mile,  and  as  they 
approached  the  house  Laine  saw  it  was  archi- 
tecturally of  a  type  unseen  before.  The  central 
building,  broad,  two  stories  high,  with  sloping 
roof  and  deep-pillared  portico,  by  itself  would 
not  have  been  unusual;  but  the  slightly  semi- 
circular corridors  connecting  it  with  the  two 
wings  gave  it  a  grace  and  beauty  seldom  found 
in  the  straight  lines  of  the  period  in  which  it 
had  been  built,  and  the  effect  was  impressive. 
At  the  foot  of  the  terrace  a  little  colored  boy 
was  blowing  ardently  a  little  trumpet,  giving 
shrill  greeting  to  the  stranger  guest,  and  as 
they  came  closer  he  took  off  his  hat  and  held 
it  in  his  hand. 

"All  right,  Gabriel."  Claudia  nodded  to  the 
boy.  ' '  Run  on,  now,  and  tell  Jeptha  to  come  for 
the  horse."  She  laughed  in  Laine's  puzzled 
eyes.  "He's  Mammy  Malaprop's  grandson. 
He  thinks  he's  the  real  Gabriel  and  it's  his  duty 
to  blow.  He  sings  like  an  angel,  but  can't  learn 
to  spell  his  name.  There  they  are!"  She 
waved  her  hand  gaily  to  the  group  on  the  porch. 

As  he  saw  them  Laine  thought  of  Claudia's 
146 


ELMWOOD 

arrival  in  New  York,  and  his  face  flushed. 
The  men  came  down  the  steps,  and  a  moment 
later  he  was  presented  to  Claudia's  mother, 
gracious,  gentle,  and  of  a  dignity  fine  and  sweet ; 
to  her  sister,  home  for  the  holidays  with  her 
husband  and  children;  to  an  engineer  cousin 
from  the  West,  and  a  girl  from  Philadelphia; 
and  once  more  his  hands  were  shaken  by  Colonel 
Bushrod  Ball.  It  was  a  Christmas  guest  who 
was  being  welcomed,  not  Winthrop  Laine  alone, 
and  he  wondered  if  he  were  indeed  himself. 

More  than  once  he  wondered  before  the  day 
was  done.  Under  the  leadership  of  the  Colonel 
the  men  were  shown  their  rooms,  by  way  of 
the  dining-room,  for,  like  Moses,  Uncle  Bush- 
rod  believed  inward  cheer  essential  after  out- 
door chill;  and,  moreover,  the  apple  toddy  must 
be  tested.  It  was  an  old  world  he  was  in,  but 
to  him  a  very  new  one.  The  happy  stir  of 
Christmas  preparations,  the  coming  and  going 
of  friends  and  neighbors,  the  informality  and 
absence  of  pretense,  the  gay  chatter  and  genuine 
interest,  was  warm  and  sweet ;  and  as  one  who 
watches  a  play  he  wondered  at  it,  and  some- 
thing long  thought  dead  thrilled  and  throbbed 
and  stirred  within  him. 

In  former  days  the  house  had  doubtless  been 
147 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

the  scene  of  lavish  living,  he  thought  from  time 
to  time,  and  he  would  have  liked  to  explore  the 
many  rooms  with  their  polished  floors  and  deep 
window-seats,  their  carved  paneling  and  marble 
mantels;  and  when,  in  the  afternoon,  he  found 
himself  alone  for  a  few  minutes  in  the  vast 
hall,  he  paced  off  its  sixty  feet  of  length  and 
its  twenty  of  width  to  know  their  number, 
studied  the  winding  staircase  with  its  white 
pilasters  and  mahogany  rails,  scanned  hurriedly 
the  portraits  in  their  tarnished  frames,  some 
with  the  signatures  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 
some  with  Stuart,  and  others  of  lesser  fame, 
which  hung  above  the  wainscoted  walls;  and 
as  he  looked  he  did  not  wonder  at  Claudia's 
love  for  her  home. 

"You  care  for  these  things,  too,  do  you?" 
The  voice  behind  made  him  turn  quickly. 
The  girl  from  Philadelphia  nodded  to  him  and 
hugged  her  crossed  arms  closely  to  her  bosom. 
"I  don't.  That  is,  not  in  weather  like  this, 
I  don't.  Ancestral  halls  sound  well,  but,  un- 
heated,  they're  horrors.  I'm  frozen,  and  the 
doors  are  open,  of  course.  Have  you  been  in 
the  big  parlors?  Some  pretty  things  are  in 
them,  but  faded  and  rather  shabby  now. 
Why  don't  you  go  in  the  library?  There's  a 
148 


ELMWOOD 

roaring  fire  in  there,  and  a  chair  you  can  sit 
on.  Every  other  one  in  the  house  has  some- 
thing in  it." 

Laine  followed  the  girl  into  the  library,  and  as 
she  held  her  hands  to  the  blaze  she  motioned 
him  to  sit  down.  "I  don't  believe  anybody  in 
the  world  is  as  crazy  about  Christmas  as  Clau- 
dia. She  gets  the  whole  county  on  the  jump, 
and  to-morrow  night  everything  in  it  will  be 
here.  Giving  is  all  right,  but  Claudia  takes  it 
too  far.  The  house  needs  painting,  and  a  fur- 
nace would  make  it  a  different  place,  but  she 
will  do  nothing  until  she  has  the  money  in  the 
bank  to  pay  for  it ;  and  yet  she  will  give  every- 
body within  miles  a  Christmas  present.  When 
she  took  hold  of  things  the  place  was  dread- 
fully mortgaged,  and  she's  paid  off  every  dol- 
lar; but,  for  chance,  stock-markets  aren't  in  it 
with  farming.  Isn't  that  a  pretty  old  desk? 
I  could  sell  lots  of  this  furniture  for  them  and 
get  big  money  for  it,  but  I  don't  dare  say  so. 
They  never  talk  money  here.  My  room  hasn't 
a  piece  of  carpet  on  it,  and  one  of  those  old 
Joshua  Reynoldses  in  the  hall  would  get  so 
many  things  the  house  needs.  I'm  a  Philistine, 
I  guess,  as  well  as  a  Philadelphian,  and  I  like 
new  things :  plenty  of  bath-rooms  and  electric 
149 


THE    MAN    IN   LONELY    LAND 

lights  and  steam  heat.  I  don't  blame  them 
for  not  selling  the  old  silver  and  china  or  the 
dining-room  furniture,  though  it  needs  doing 
over  pretty  badly;  but  some  of  those  old  peri- 
wigged pictures  I'd  sell  in  a  minute.  Plenty  of 
people  would  pay  well  for  ancestors,  and  it's 
about  all  they've  got  down  here.  Hello,  Claudia ; 
we  were  just  talking  about  you!" 

Claudia  put  down  the  armful  of  red  roses 
she  was  carrying  and  began  to  fill  a  tall  vase 
with  them.  "Did  you  say  anything  that 
wasn't  nice?"  She  bit  a  piece  of  stem  off. 
"If  you  did,  it  wasn't  so."  She  turned  to 
Laine.  "You  ought  to  see  mother.  She  rare- 
ly has  such  flowers  as  you  brought  down — 
You  have  made  her  so  happy.  It  was  very 
good  of  you." 

"Good!"  The  girl  from  Philadelphia  went 
out  of  the  room.  "If  only — "  In  his  eyes  no 
longer  was  restraint,  and  Claudia  turned  her 
head  as  if  listening  to  something  outside. 

"I  believe  mother  is  calling  me,"  she  said. 
"Would  you  mind  telling  her,  Mr.  Laine,  I  am 
coming  right  away?" 


XIX 


CHRISTMAS 

AINE  looked  at  his  watch.  Twenty 
minutes  past  twelve.  Christmas  was 
over.  Two  days  after  were  over 
also,  and  in  the  morning  most  of  the 
guests  were  going  away. 

From  the  basket  by  the  hearth  he 
threw  a  fresh  log  on  the  smoldering  fire,  lifted 
it  with  his  foot  farther  back  on  the  hot  ashes, 
drew  the  old-fashioned  arm-chair  closer  to  the 
fender,  and,  turning  down  the  light  from  the 
lamp  on  the  pie-crust  table  near  the  mantel, 
sat  down  and  lighted  a  fresh  cigar. 
f '••:  It  had  been  very  beautiful,  very  wonderful, 
this  Christmas  in  the  country.  Its  memories 
would  go  with  him  through  life,  and  yet  he 
must  go  away  and  say  no  word  of  what  he  had 
meant  to  say  to  Claudia. 
[  Very  definitely  he  had  understood,  from  the 
day  of  his  arrival,  that  to  tell  her  of  his  love 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

would  be  a  violation  of  a  code  to  which  the 
directness  of  his  nature  had  given  little  thought 
in  the  reaction  of  feeling  which  had  possessed 
him  when  he  read  her  note.  He  was  a  guest 
by  invitation,  and  to  speak  now  would  be  be- 
yond pardon.  In  his  heart  was  no  room  for 
humor,  and  yet  a  comic  side  of  the  situation 
in  which  he  found  himself  was  undeniable. 
The  contrast  it  afforded  to  former  opportuni- 
ties was  absurdly  sharp  and  determined,  and 
the  irony  of  the  little  god's  way  of  doing  things 
was  irritatingly  manifest. 

If  in  Claudia's  heart  was  knowledge  of  the 
secret  in  his,  she  masked  it  well.  Warmly 
cordial,  coolly  impersonal,  frankly  unconscious, 
she  had  never  avoided  him,  and  still  had  so 
managed  that  they  were  never  alone  to- 
gether. Hands  clasped  loosely,  he  leaned  for- 
ward and  stared  into  the  heart  of  the  blazing 
logs.  Of  course  she  knew.  All  women  know 
when  they  are  loved.  No.  The  log  fell  apart, 
and  its  burning  flame  glowed  rich  and  red. 
She  had  not  known,  or  she  would  not  have 
asked  him  to  Elm  wood.  Merely  as  she  would 
ask  any  other  lonely  man  in  whom  she  felt  a 
kindly  interest,  she  had  asked  him,  and,  thus 
far,  her  home  was  the  love  of  her  life.  In  a 
152 


CHRISTMAS 

thousand  ways  he  had  felt  it,  seen  it,  under- 
stood it;  and  the  man  who  would  take  her 
from  it  must  awaken  within  her  that  which  as 
yet  was  still  asleep. 

The  days  just  past  had  been  miserably 
happy.  Before  others  light  laughter  and  gay 
speech.  In  his  heart  surrender  and  suppliance, 
and  before  him  always  the  necessity  of  silence 
until  he  could  come  again,  and  he  must  go  that 
he  might  come  again. 

One  by  one,  pictures  of  recent  experiences 
passed  before  him,  experiences  of  simple,  happy, 
homelike  living;  and  things  he  had  almost  for- 
gotten to  believe  in  seemed  real  and  true  once 
more.  A  new  sense  of  values,  a  new  under- 
standing of  the  essentials  of  life,  had  been  born 
again;  and  something  growing  cold  and  cynical 
had  warmed  and  softened. 

In  the  big  hall  he  had  helped  the  others  put 
up  the  fragrant  spruce  pine-tree  which  reached 
to  the  ceiling,  helped  to  dress  it  midst  jolly 
chatter  and  joyous  confusion,  helped  to  hide  the 
innumerable  presents  for  the  morrow's  findings ; 
and  on  Christmas  morning  had  as  eagerly 
dumped  the  contents  of  his  stocking  as  had 
Jack  and  Janet,  or  the  men  who  had  come  from 
busy  city  lives  to  be  boys  again,  or  as  Claudia 


THE    MAN    IN   LONELY    LAND 

herself,  who  could  not  see  with  what  her 
own  was  filled,  for  the  constant  demand  that 
she  should  come  here  and  there,  and  see 
this  and  that,  or  do  what  no  one  else  was 
able  to. 

Slipping  down  farther  in  his  chair,  Laine  put 
his  feet  on  the  fender  and  with  half-shut  eyes 
saw  other  pictures  in  the  fire.  The  gray  dawn 
of  Christmas  morning  came  again,  and  he  seemed 
to  hear  the  clear,  childish  voice  below  his 
window.  Half  asleep,  he  had  stirred  and  won- 
dered what  it  was,  then  sat  up  to  listen.  The 
quaint  words  of  the  old  carols  he  knew  well, 
but  never  had  he  heard  them  sung  as  Gabriel 
was  singing  them.  Shrill  and  sweet  in  the 
crisp,  cold  air,  the  voice  sounded  first  as  if  far 
away  and  then  very  near,  and  he  knew  the  boy 
was  walking  up  and  down  below  each  window 
that  all  might  hear  alike. 

As  Joseph  was  a-walking 

He  heard  the  angels  sing, 
This  night  there  shall  be  born 

Our  heavenly  King. 

Here  and  there,  in  a  verse  from  one  carol 
joined  almost  in  the  same  breath  to  another  he 
went  from: 


CHRISTMAS 

God  rest  you,  merry  gentlemen, 
Let  nothing  you  dismay. 

Remember  Christ,  our  Saviour, 
Was  born  on  Christmas  Day. 


to 


We  are  not  daily  beggars, 
That  beg  from  door  to  door, 

But  we  are  neighbor's  children 
Whom  you  have  seen  before. 

He  had  smiled  at  the  mixture  of  verses  and 
jumped  up,  for  Jim  had  corne  in  to  light  the 
fire,  and  from  his  broadly  grinning  face  ' '  Christ- 
mas Gif"  was  radiating,  if  from  his  lips,  in 
obedience  to  orders,  their  utterance  was  with- 
held. On  his  door  a  half -hour  later  came  the 
pounding  of  childish  fists,  and  Janet's  lisping 
voice  was  calling  sturdily: 

"Oh,  Mither  Laine,  Santa  Clauth  hath  come 
and  your  stocking  ith  down-stairs.  Pleath,  thir, 
hurry!  Mother  said  I  could  kiss  you  a  happy 
Chrithmath  if  you  were  drethed." 

Hand  in  hand  they  had  gone  into  the  dining- 
room,  with  its  lavishly  spread  table  and  mantel- 
hung  stockings,  and  the  chorus  of  hearty  greet- 
ings and  warm  hand-shaking  had  made  his  heart 
beat  like  a  boy's. 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

The  day  had  passed  quickly.  The  gay 
breakfast;  the  unwrapping  of  bundles;  the 
sleigh-ride  to  church,  where  the  service  was  not 
so  long  as  was  the  seemingly  social  meeting 
afterward;  the  bountiful  dinner  with  its  table 
laden  as  in  days  of  old  rather  than  in  the 
modern  fashion  of  elegant  emptiness;  the  short 
afternoon — it  was  all  soon  over,  and  the  evening 
had  gone  even  more  rapidly. 

The  crackling  logs  and  dancing  flames  in  the 
huge  old-fashioned  fireplace  in  the  hall,  the 
tree  with  its  myriad  of  lighted  candles,  the 
many  guests  from  county's  end  to  county's  end, 
the  delicious  supper  and  foaming  egg-nog,  and, 
last  of  all,  the  Virginia  reel  danced  in  the  vast 
parlors  and  led  by  Colonel  Bushrod  Ball  and 
Madam  Beverly,  who  had  not  missed  a  Christ- 
mas night  at  Elmwood  since  she  was  a  bride 
some  sixty  years  ago,  made  a  memory  to  last 
through  life,  a  memory  more  than  beautiful  if — 
He  drew  in  a  deep  breath.  There  should  be  no 
"if." 

Through  the  days  and  the  evenings  of  the 
days  that  followed  there  had  been  no  word 
alone  with  Claudia,  however.  She  had  taken 
him  to  see  the  Prossers,  but  Jack  and  Janet 
had  gone  with  them,  and  out-of-doors  and  in- 
156 


CHRISTMAS 

doors  there  was  always  some  one  else.     Was 
this  done  purposely? 

He  leaned  forward  and  threw  a  couple  of 
logs  on  the  fire.  The  room  was  cold.  As  the 
wood  caught  and  the  flames  curled  around  the 
rough  bark,  the  big  tester  bed,  with  its  carved 
posts  and  valance  of  white  muslin,  threw  long 
shadows  across  the  room,  and  in  their  brass 
candlesticks  the  candle-light  flared  fitfully 
from  the  mantel,  touching  lightly  the  bowl  of 
holly  with  its  scarlet  berries,  and  throwing  pale 
gleams  of  color  on  the  polished  panels  of  the 
old  mahogany  wardrobe  on  the  opposite  wall. 
For  a  moment  he  watched  the  play  of  fire  and 
candle,  then  got  up  and  began  to  walk  back- 
ward and  forward  the  length  of  the  uncarpeted 
floor.  Writing  was  a  poor  weapon  with  which 
to  win  a  woman's  heart.  Rather  would  he  tell 
her  of  his  love,  ask  her  to  be  his  wife,  and,  if 
she  would  marry  him,  compel  her  to  say  when ; 
but  he  could  not  come  as  quickly  as  he  could 
write.  He  must  go  away  that  he  might  tell 
her  what  no  longer  was  to  be  withheld.  In- 
decision had  ever  been  unendurable,  and  un- 
certainty was  not  in  him  to  stand.  Without 
her,  life  would  be — again  he  looked  in  the  fire — 
without  her,  life  would  not  be  life.- 


XX 


CLAUDIA 

LAUDIA  parted  the  curtains  of  her 
bedroom  window  and,  holding  them 
aside,  looked  out  upon  the  scene  be- 
fore her  with  eyes  love-filled  at  its 
wonder  and  beauty. 

Across  the  broad,  terraced  lawn  the 
fresh-fallen  snow  was  unbroken,  and  every 
crystal-coated  branch  and  twig  of  the  great 
trees  upon  it  gleamed  in  the  moonlight  as 
though  made  of  glass.  In  the  distance  the 
river  between  its  low  hills  seemed  a  shining, 
winding  path  of  silver,  and  over  it  the  moon 
hung  white  and  clear  and  passionless.  The 
mystery  of  silence,  the  majesty  of  things  eter- 
nal, brooded  softly;  and  with  a  sudden  move- 
ment of  her  hands  Claudia  held  them  as  though 
in  prayer. 

"In  all  the  world  there  is  no  place  like  this 
— for  me.     It  is  my  place.     My  work  is  here. 
I  could  not — could  not!" 
158 


CLAUDIA 

With  a  slight  indrawing  breath  that  was 
half  sigh,  half  shiver,  she  left  the  window  and 
drew  her  chair  close  to  the  fire.  For  a  long 
time  she  looked  into  its  dancing  depths,  and 
gradually  her  eyes  so  narrowed  that  their  long 
lashes  touched  her  flame-flushed  cheeks.  After 
a  while  she  got  up,  went  over  to  her  desk,  took 
from  it  several  letters  locked  in  a  small  drawer, 
came  back  to  the  fire,  and  again  looked  into  it. 

The  girlish  grace  of  her  figure  in  its  simple 
dress  of  soft  blue,  open  at  the  neck  and  showing 
the  curves  of  the  beautiful  throat,  was  em- 
phasized by  the  unconscious  relaxation  of  her 
body  as  she  leaned  for  a  moment  against  the 
mantel;  and  the  Claudia  to  whom  all  looked 
for  direction,  the  Claudia  who  had  small  pa- 
tience with  hesitating  indecisions,  and  none  for 
morbid  self-questionings,  searched  the  leaping 
flames  with  eyes  uncertain  and  afraid. 

A  slight  noise  in  the  hall  made  her  start 
uneasily.  She  did  not  want  to  be  disturbed 
to-night.  Turning  her  head,  she  listened.  The 
corners  of  the  large,  high-ceilinged  room,  with 
its  old-fashioned  mahogany  furniture,  its  shelves 
of  books,  its  carved  desk  of  quaint  pattern,  and 
its  many  touches  of  feminine  occupancy,  were 
lost  in  shadow,  and  only  here  and  there  on  chair 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

or  table  or  bit  of  wall  the  firelight  darted,  but 
to  dance  off  again,  and  the  stillness  was  un- 
broken save  by  the  crackling  logs  upon  the 
hearth. 

Drawing  the  lamp  on  the  table  closer,  she 
sat  down  and  took  out  of  their  opened  enve- 
lopes two  letters,  one  addressed  to  her  mother 
and  one  to  her  Uncle  Bushrod  Ball;  and  as 
she  read  them  the  flush  in  her  face  deepened, 
then  paled,  and  she  bit  her  lip  to  hide  its 
quivering.  Putting  them  aside,  she  held  for  a 
moment,  in  hands  that  trembled  slightly,  an- 
other letter,  and  presently  she  began  to  read  it : 

"  December  joth. 

"I  can  wait  no  longer,  Claudia.  Words  are 
not  for  love  like  mine;  but  you,  who  gave  it 
life,  will  understand  it  without  words.  I  be- 
lieved I  had  put  it  from  me — the  thought  of 
marriage — for  almost  I  had  lost  my  faith  in 
the  love  for  which  I  looked,  and  with  com- 
promise I  could  not  be  content.  Perhaps  I 
had  no  right  to  ask  for  what  few  find  in  life, 
but  I  did  ask  it,  and  when  you  came  I  knew  my 
dreaming  had  come  true.  Will  you  marry  me, 
Claudia?  So  infinitely  I  love  you,  want  you, 
need  you,  that  the  days  ahead  until  I  win  you 
1 60 


CLAUDIA 

— for  I  shall  win  you — are  dark  and  dreaded. 
All  of  your  love,  its  supremest  best,  I  want; 
but  if  for  mine,  which  is  beyond  all  measure, 
you  can  give  me  now  but  little,  give  it  and  let 
me  come  to  you.  I  must  come.  I  am  coming. 
And  believe  me  always  Yours, 

"WINTHROP  LAINE." 

•v. 

The  pages  dropped  slowly  in  her  lap,  and, 
leaning  back  in  her  chair,  Claudia  closed  her 
eyes  and  pressed  her  hands  against  them 
tightly.  For  some  time  she  sat  thus,  then  took 
up  the  last  letter  and  read  that  also. 

"December  31  st. 

"It  is  within  an  hour  of  midnight,  Claudia. 
Soon  the  new  year  will  be  with  us  and  the  old 
one  gone — the  one  that  brought  you  to  me. 
Almost  the  year  had  gone  before  I  met  you,  but 
time  is  more  than  days  and  weeks,  and  that  of 
ours  together  has  been  the  real  living  of  my 
life.  In  the  stillness  of  my  room  I  drop  my 
book  and  dream  that  you  are  with  me.  On 
the  street  I  hurry  home  to  you;  and  once  I 
stopped  and  bought  you  flowers — and  in  the 
darkness  threw  them  away.  To  have  you 
really  here,  to  know  that  you  are  waiting — 
161 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

' '  The  new  year  has  come,  Claudia.  The  bells 
are  striking  the  hour.  It  must,  it  shall  bring 
you  to  me.  I  am  asking  much  when  I  ask  you 
to  marry  me,  to  leave  your  home  to  make  a 
home  for  me.  Your  infinite  love  for  Elmwood 
is  understood  well.  Its  old-world  air  of  dignity 
and  charm,  of  gracious  courtesy  and  fine  friend- 
ships, of  proud  memories  and  gentle  peace, 
could  scarce  find  counterpart  elsewhere  on 
earth,  and  yet  in  the  days  to  come  would  it  con- 
tent alone,  Claudia?  For  my  great  need  of  you 
might  there  not  be  some  little  need  of  me? 
Tell  me  I  may  come;  but,  whether  you  tell  me 
or  not,  I  am  coming. 

"WINTHROP  LAINE." 

Claudia  put  the  pages  back  in  their  envelope. 
On  the  hearth  the  fire  burned  low,  and,  slipping 
out  of  her  chair,  she  sat  upon  the  rug  and  held 
her  hands  out  shiveringly  to  the  red  ashes 
slowly  turning  gray.  The  habit  of  childhood 
was  upon  her,  and  quiveringly  she  talked  to 
herself: 

"You  shouldn't  have  asked  him  to  come 

Christmas!    But  how  could  I  have  known? 

I  only  thought  he  would  be  lonely.     He  cares 

for  so  few  people  and  with  all  his  wisdom  has 

162 


CLAUDIA 

so  little  understanding  of  many  things  in  life. 
He  is  so  intolerant  of  weakness  and  meanness, 
of  sham  and  show  and  pretence  and  make- 
believe  that — that  that's  why  you  like  him,  and 
you  know  it,  Claudia  Keith!  You  shouldn't 
have  asked  him.  You  didn't  know — but  you 
knew  before  he  went  away.  And  he  is  coming 
back."  Slowly  she  got  up.  "No.  He  is  not 
coming  back.  That  is,  not  yet,  he  isn't.  You 
are  not  sure.  Are  you  glad?"  In  the  mirror 
over  the  mantel  she  met  her  eyes  unshrinkingly. 
"Yes,  I  am  glad,"  she  said,  and  her  lips  whit- 
ened. "I  am  glad,  but  I  am  not  sure."  In  her 
eyes  was  strange  appeal.  "Vermont  and  Vir- 
ginia! Could  we  be  happy?  We  are  so  dif- 
ferent— and  yet —  Perhaps  in  the  spring.  .  .  . 
The  winter  months  are  very  long.  Oh,  Win- 
throp  Laine!"  She  pressed  her  hands  to  her 
heart  as  if  to  still  its  sudden  throbbing,  then 
reached  for  his  letter  and  kissed  it.  "I  wonder 
if  I  am  going  to  know  what  Lonely  Land  can 
mean!" 


XXI 


D 


A   VISIT   FROM    DOROTHEA 

OROTHEA  settled  herself  more  com- 
fortably in  her  uncle's  lap.  "You 
certainly  ought  to  be  thankful  you've 
never  had  it,"  she  said.  "It's  worse 
than  being  a  leper.  I've  never  been  a 
leper,  but  when  you're  that  you  can 
go  out,  the  Bible  says  so,  and  people  just  pass 
you  by  on  the  other  side  and  let  you  alone. 
With  diphtheria  they  don't  let  you  alone. 
Lepers  are  just  outcasts,  but  diphtherias — 
what  are  people  who  have  diphtheria? — well, 
whatever  they  are,  they're  cast  in  and  nobody 
can  see  them  except  the  nurses  and  the  doctor 
and  your  mother  and  father.  The  doctor  said 
father  mustn't  come  in  my  room,  as  he  had  to 
go  to  his  business,  and  father  told  him  to  go  to 
the  devil — I  heard  him.  I  just  love  the  way 
father  talks  when  he's  mad.  I  couldn't  have 
stood  the  long  days  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you  and 
164 


A   VISIT    FROM    DOROTHEA 

father  coming  in  every  evening.  They  cer- 
tainly do  a  lot  of  things  when  you're  sick  with 
contagiousness.  Everything  you  eat  out  of  and 
drink  out  of  has  to  be  boiled  and  stewed,  and 
the  things  you  spit  in  burned  up,  and  the  walls 
washed,  and  more  foolishness!"  Dorothea's 
eyes  rolled  and  her  voice  was  emphatic.  "I 
don't  believe  in  a  lot  of  things,  Uncle  Winthrop. 
I  wasn't  really  sick,  and  just  had  a  teensy, 
weensy  bit  of  pain  in  my  throat;  and  if  I'd 
known  what  they  were  going  to  do  to  me  I'd 
have  been  one  of  those  Science  Christians  and 
kept  it  to  myself." 

"But  suppose  you  had  given  it  to  Chan- 
ning?"  Dorothea's  uncle  settled  Dorothea 
more  steadily  on  his  lap.  "The  foolishness 
of  wisdom  is  all  some  see  of  it,  but  if  Channing 
had  taken  diphtheria  from  you — 

1 '  I  don't  believe  there  was  any  diphtheria  for 
him  to  take.  If  I'd  been  a  poor  person  it  would 
have  been  plain  sore  throat,  and  I'd  had  some 
peace.  Timkins  says  his  little  girl  was  a  heap 
sicker  than  I  was,  and  her  mother  nursed  her 
all  the  time,  and  she  got  well  long  before  I  did. 
Are  we  very  rich,  Uncle  Winthrop?" 

"You  are  not  billionaires.     Your  father  has 
been  fortunate  and  made  some  money — " 
165 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

"Is  making  money  fortunate?  Of  course,  I 
like  nice  things;  but  a  whole  lot  of  us  children 
feel  like"  —Dorothea's  arms  waved  as  if  to 
free  herself  from  unseen  strappings — "feel  like 
Chinese  children.  Our  feet  aren't  really  bound, 
sure  enough,  but  we  can't  do  like  we  like. 
Sometimes  I  just  want  to  run  as  fast  as  a  race- 
horse, and  holler  as  loud  as  the  poor  children 
do  in  the  park.  I  hate  regulations  and  proper 
things.  If  father  were  to  lose  his  money,  do 
you  suppose  we  would  have  to  have  a  special 
time  for  everything  we  do  ?  Go  to  bed,  and  get 
up,  and  eat,  and  say  lessons,  and  study  lessons, 
and  take  lessons,  and  go  out,  and  come  in,  and  lie 
down  in  a  dark  room,  and  go  again  to  drive  or 
walk,  and  in  between  everything  you  do  dress 
over  again,  and  never,  never  run  or  climb  trees 
or  tear  your  clothes  and  have  just  plain  fun? 
I  love  dirt.  I  do!  I  have  to  be  so  careful 
with  my  finger  nails  and  my  clothes  that  if 
ever  I  have  children  I  am  going  to  let  them  get 
right  down  in  the  dirt  and  roll  in  it  and  make 
all  the  noise  they  want.  Mother  says  a  loud 
voice  is  so  inelegant.  So  is  affectatiousness,  I 
think,  and  I  wasn't  born  with  a  soft  voice.  I 
just  bawl  at  Channing  sometimes.  I  do  it  on 
purpose.  I'm  like  father.  I  get  tired  of  being 
166 


A   VISIT    FROM    DOROTHEA 

elegant.  Haven't  you  any  kind  of  candy  any- 
where, Uncle  Winthrop?  Mother  said  I  could 
have  a  few  pieces  if  it  didn't  have  nuts  in  it." 

Laine  reached  for  a  drawer  in  the  book-piled 
table  near  which  he  sat.  "If  I  had  known  I 
was  to  have  the  honor  of  a  visit  from  you  this 
afternoon  I  would  have  been  better  prepared 
for  entertainment.  I'm  afraid  this  candy  isn't 
very  good.  It's  been  here  since  your  last 
visit,  and — 

"That's  been  two  months  ago.  We  didn't 
get  back  from  Florida  until  February,  and  in 
March  I  was  taken  sick,  and  then  we  went  to 
Lakewood,  and  now  it's  May.  Mother  can't 
understand  how  I  got  sick.  She  says  she  tries 
so  hard  to  keep  us  from  diseases  and  they  come 
anyhow.  I  wish  I  didn't  have  to  be  educated 
and  find  out  things — mother  knows  a  lot;  but 
it  makes  her  so  nervous.  I'd  rather  be  sick 
sometimes  than  afraid  of  being  all  the  time. 
This  certainly  is  poor  candy.  I  promised 
mother  I  wouldn't  eat  a  thing  Caddie  gave 
me  if  she'd  let  me  come  to  see  you;  but  I  don't 
think  she'd  mind  if  I  took  home  some  of  those 
little  cakes  Caddie  makes  with  almonds  in 
them.  Do  you  suppose  she  has  any?" 

"I  couldn't  guess.  I'll  ring  and  find  out." 
167 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

"I'll  ask  her."  Dorothea  slipped  from  her 
uncle's  lap.  "I'll  be  back  in  a  minute,"  and 
before  Laine  could  press  the  button  which 
would  bring  Moses  she  had  disappeared.  Five 
minutes  later  she  was  back,  in  her  hands  a  good- 
sized  paper  box,  tied  clumsily  with  red  string, 
and  as  she  put  it  on  the  table  she  patted  it 
with  satisfaction. 

"That's  for  Channing,"  she  said,  half  leaning 
against  the  table  and  drumming  on  it  with  the 
tips  of  her  fingers.  "Caddie  didn't  have  any 
cakes.  She  says  you  used  to  like  sweet  things, 
and  it  was  once  a  pleasure  to  cook  for  you;  but 
if  you  enjoy  anything  you  eat  now  you  never 
confess  it  to  her.  She  says  you  eat,  but  you 
don't  know  the  name  of  what  you're  eating, 
and  one  thing  is  the  same  as  another.  I  think 
her  feelings  are  getting  hurt,  Uncle  Winthrop." 

"Are  they?  I'm  sorry.  Caddie  is  a  spoiled 
creature.  I  long  ago  exhausted  the  English 
language  in  commendation  of  her  efforts. 
Nothing  is  so  wearing  on  one  as  continual  de- 
mand for  praise,  and  Caddie's  capacity  is  ex- 
haustless.  I'm  sorry  she  didn't  have  the  little 
cakes." 

"She's  going  to  make  some  to-morrow  and 
send  them  to  me.  It's  pop-corn  in  this  box." 
168 


A   VISIT    FROM    DOROTHEA 

Dorothea  held  up  the  latter  and  shook  it. 
"Moses  brought  it  from  Virginia.  They  are 
the  cunningest  little  ears  you've  ever  saw. 
Wasn't  it  nice  of  Moses  to  think  about  us  and 
bring  it  ?  Of  course,  he  didn't  know  we  would 
be  away  so  long  and  that  I  was  going  to  be 
sick  and  he  wouldn't  see  me  until  spring;  but 
it's  a  thing  that  keeps,  and  the  drier  it  is  the 
prettier  it  pops,  he  says.  What  is  that  picture 
over  there,  Uncle  Winthrop?  It  is  very  ugly." 

Laine  glanced  at  the  picture  to  which  Doro- 
thea pointed.  "That  is  a  Jan  Steen  —  'The 
Village  Fair.'  Sorry  you  don't  like  it.  You 
think  that  Botticelli  is  ugly  also.  A  little  later 
in  life  it  may  meet  with  your  approval.  The 
original  is  priceless." 

"A  lot  of  priceless  things  aren't  pretty.  I 
don't  ever  expect  to  be  a  culturated  person. 
Mother  makes  me  go  to  all  those  old  galleries 
and  museums,  when  we're  in  Europe,  and  look 
at  a  lot  of  cracked  pictures  and  broken  statues 
and  carved  things,  and  wants  me  to  think 
they're  beautiful,  but  I  don't.  Some  of  them 
are  hideous,  and  I  get  so  tired  of  being  told  I 
must  admire  them  that  I  make  a  face  inside  at 
most  of  them  as  I  walk  along,  though,  of  course, 
outside,  for  mother's  sake,  I  don't  make  any 

12  169 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

signs.  I'm  a  great  disappointment  to  mother. 
We  had  a  lady  artist  guide  the  last  time  we 
were  in  Italy.  She  used  to  get  so  mad  with 
me  that  once  she  shook  me.  Father  would 
have  killed  her  if  she  hadn't  been  a  lady,  and 
after  that  he  and  I  used  to  go  out  by  ourselves 
and  have  the  grandest  times.  He'd  show  me 
just  a  few  pictures  at  the  time,  and  tell  me  all 
about  them,  and  some  of  them  I  just  loved. 
Mother  says  you  have  so  many  beautiful  things, 
Uncle  Winthrop,  and  that  it's  a  shame  for  a 
man  to  have  them  all  by  himself."  She  looked 
around  the  large  room,  and  again  took  her  seat 
in  her  uncle's  lap.  "Some  things  I  like  in  here, 
and  some  I  don't.  You've  got  an  awful  lot  of 
books,  haven't  you?" 

"Too  many,  I'm  afraid.  Would  you  mind  if 
I  smoked?"  Laine  reached  for  a  cigar  from  the 
box  on  the  table  and  held  it  between  his  fingers. 
"May  I?" 

"Of  course.  I  hope  I  won't  forget,  though, 
and  kiss  you.  I'm  so  apt  to  when  I'm  talk- 
ing, if  I  like  a  person.  Tobacco  is  so  bitter. 
I'll  tell  you  what  I  think  is  the  matter  with 
this  room.  It's — it's — "  She  looked  around 
carefully.  "It's  something  that  isn't  in  it.  I 
don't  know  what  it  is.  Why  don't  you  get 
170 


A   VISIT    FROM    DOROTHEA 

married,  Uncle  Winthrop?  Maybe  your  wife 
would  know." 

Laine  put  the  unlighted  cigar  back  on  the 
table,  and  Dorothea's  hands,  which  were  strok- 
ing one  of  his,  were  gripped  by  it  and  held 
tightly. 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it.  The  trouble  is  in  getting 
the  wife." 

Dorothea  sat  upright.  "The  idea!  I  heard 
Miss  Robin  French  say  the  other  day  the  way 
unmarried  men  were  run  after  was  outrageous, 
and  all  they  had  to  do  was  to  stand  still  and 
crow  a  little,  and  up  would  come  a-clucking  all 
kinds  of  hens,  little  ones  and  big  ones,  and 
young  ones  and  old  ones,  and —  Don't  you  tell 
anybody,  but  I  think  she'd  come,  too!"  Doro- 
thea's hands  came  together,  and  she  laughed 
gleefully.  "Father  says  if  Miss  Robin  would 
give  up  hoping  she'd  be  happier."  Suddenly 
her  face  sobered.  "Do  all  ladies  try  to  marry 
a  man,  Uncle  Winthrop?" 

"They  most  certainly  do  not."  Laine  smiled 
in  Dorothea's  face,  and  before  the  child's  clear 
eyes  his  own,  full  of  weary  pain,  turned  away. 
"Many  of  them  take  very  long  to  make  up  their 
minds  to  marry  at  all." 

"Have  you  ever  asked  one  to  marry  you?" 
171 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

Laine  did  not  answer.  Dorothea's  question 
was  unheard.  His  thoughts  were  elsewhere. 

"Have  you?" 

"Have  I  what?" 

"Ever  asked  a  lady  to  marry  you?" 

"I  have." 

The  hand  which  Dorothea  had  been  stroking 
was  dropped.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
stood  in  front  of  him,  her  hands  clasped  in 
rigid  excitement  on  her  breast. 

"When" — her  voice  curled  upward  in  quiver- 
ing delight — "when  is  she  going  to  do  it,  Uncle 
Winthrop?" 

"I  do  not  know.  She  has  not  said  she  would 
do  it  at  all." 

"Not  said — she  would — marry — you!"  De- 
light had  changed  to  indignation  high  and 
shrill,  and  Dorothea's  eyes  blazed  brilliantly. 
"Is  she  a  crazy  lady?" 

"She  is  not." 

"Then  why?" 

' '  She  is  not  quite  sure  she —  It  is  not  a  thing 
to  talk  about,  Dorothea."  He  drew  her  again 
on  his  lap  and  unclasped  the  clenched  fingers. 
"We  are  good  friends,  you  and  I,  and  I  have 
told  you  what  I  have  told  no  one  else.  So  far 
as  I  am  concerned,  it  does  not  matter  who 
172 


A  VISIT    FROM    DOROTHEA 

knows,  but  until  she  decides  we  will  not  talk 
of  this  again.  You  understand,  don't  you, 
Dorothea?" 

"I  understand  she  must  have  very  little 
sense.  I  don't  see  how  you  could  want  to 
marry  a  lady  who  didn't  know  right  off,  the  very 
first  minute,  that  she  wanted  to  marry  you. 
Do — do  I  know  her,  Uncle  Winthrop?" 

"You  do." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  broken  only 
by  the  ticking  of  the  clock  on  the  mantel ;  and 
slowly  Dorothea  turned  to  her  uncle,  her  big 
brown  eyes  troubled  and  uncertain.  For  half 
a  moment  she  looked  at  him,  then,  without 
warning,  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck  and 
hid  her  face  against  his. 

"Is — is — it  Claudia,  Uncle  Winthrop?"  she 
whispered.  "Is — it — my  cousin  Claudia?" 

"It  is — your  cousin  Claudia." 

The  quiver  in  Laine's  voice  was  beyond  con- 
trol, and,  lifting  the  child's  face,  he  kissed  it. 
' '  I  have  asked  her  to  marry  me,  Dorothea,  but 
not  yet  has  she  promised  to  do  so." 

In  Dorothea's  cheeks  two  burning  spots  of 
red  glowed  brilliantly.  Slipping  down  from 
her  uncle's  lap,  she  drew  a  long  breath.  "I 
knew  she  must  be  queer  about  something,"  she 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

said,  and  her  fingers  interlocked  in  trembling 
excitement.  "She  was  too  nice  not  to  be,  but 
I  didn't  think  she'd  be  this  kind  of  queer.  The 
idea  of  not  promising  right  away!  I  know 
what's  the  matter.  It's  her  home  and  her 
mother,  and  all  the  things  she  is  doing  in  the 
country  that  she  don't  want  to  give  up.  Why 
don't  you  go  down  there  and  make  her,  Uncle 
Winthrop?" 

' '  She  asks  me  not  to  come — yet.  There  is  no 
hotel,  and — 

"Does  she  write  to  you?" 

Laine  smiled  in  the  eager  eyes.  "Yes,  she 
writes  to  me. ' ' 

Again  there  was  silence,  and  presently  a 
queer  sound  from  Dorothea.  "I  can't  help  it, 
Uncle  Winthrop!  They're  coming!  Won't  it 
be  grand,  because  she  will,  I  know  she  will,  and 
I'm  so  glad  I  can't — can't  help—  And  big, 
happy  tears  rolled  down  Dorothea's  face,  which 
was  pressed  close  to  Laine's  as  he  held  her  close 
to  his  heart. 

That  night,  when  all  the  house  was  still  and 
every  one  asleep,  Dorothea  slipped  out  of  bed 
and,  kneeling  down  beside  it,  folded  her  hands 
and  began  to  pray. 

"O  Lord" — her  voice  was  a  high  whisper — 
174 


A   VISIT    FROM    DOROTHEA 

"please  make  my  cousin  Claudia  come  to  her 
senses  and  promise  my  uncle  Winthrop  that  she 
will  marry  him  right  away.  She  lives  in 
Virginia.  Her  post-office  is  Brooke  Bank,  and 
she's  an  awfully  nice  person,  but  father  says 
even  You  don't  know  why  women  do  like  they 
do  sometimes,  and  of  course  a  man  don't. 
Please  make  her  love  him  so  hard  she'd  just 
die  without  him,  and  make  her  write  him  to 
come  quick.  Give  her  plenteous  sense  from 
on  high,  and  fill  her  with  heavenly  thankful- 
ness and  make  her  my  aunt  for  ever  and  ever. 
Amen." 

She  got  up  and  scrambled  into  bed  and  closed 
her  eyes  tightly.  ' '  French  prayers  aren't  worth 
a  cent  when  you  want  something  and  want  it 
quick,"  she  said,  half  aloud.  "And  when 
you're  in  dead  earnest  you  have  to  get  right 
down  on  your  knees.  I  don't  know  what  I'd 
do  if  I  couldn't  talk  in  plain  English  to  the 
Lord.  I  hope  He  will  answer,  for  if  He  don't 
I  certainly  couldn't  say  right  off,  'Thy  will  be 
done.'  I'd  say  I  thought  my  cousin  Claudia 
had  mighty  little  sense." 


XXII 


W 


SPRINGTIME 

INTHROP  LAINE  lifted  the  tangled 
vines  which  overhung  the  shrub- 
bordered  path  leading  down  the  slo- 
ping lawn  at  the  back  of  the  house 
to  the  rose-garden  at  its  foot,  and 
held  them  so  that  Claudia  could 
pass  under. 

"They  ought  to  be  cut."  She  stopped  and 
unfastened  a  long  tendril  of  intertwined  honey- 
suckle and  bridal-wreath  which  had  caught  her 
hair.  "Everything  ought  to  be  cut  and  fixed, 
only—" 

"It  would  be  beyond  pardon.  If  any  one 
should  attempt  to  change  this  garden,  death 
should  be  the  penalty.  One  rarely  sees  such 
old-fashioned  flowers  as  are  here,  never  in 
modern  places." 

"No  one  knows  when  many  of  them  were 
planted,  and  nothing  hurts  them."    Stooping, 
176 


SPRINGTIME 

Claudia  picked  from  the  ground  a  few  violets 
and  lilies-of-the-valley  growing  around  the 
trunk  of  an  immense  elm-tree  at  the  end  of  the 
path,  then  looked  up. 

"Don't  let's  go  to  the  roses  yet.  I  want  to 
see  what  the  sun-dial  says.  This  is  the  way  my 
great-grandmother  used  to  come  to  meet  my 
great-grandfather  when  she  was  a  girl.  Her 
parents  wanted  her  to  marry  some  one  else. 
She  would  slip  out  of  the  house  and  down  this 
path  to  that  big  magnolia-tree,  from  where  she 
could  see  and  not  be  seen,  and  it  was  there  they 
made  their  plans  to  run  away." 

"We  will  go  there.  It  looks  like  a  very  nice 
place  at  which  to  make  plans." 

Into  Claudia's  face  color  sprang  quickly,  and 
for  a  moment  she  drew  back.  "Oh  no!  It  is 
too  beautiful  to-day  to  make  plans  of  any  kind. 
It  is  enough  to  just — live.  You  haven't  seen 
half  of  Elmwood  yet,  and  you  want  to  talk  of — 
other  things." 

"I  certainly  do."  Laine  stepped  back  that 
Claudia  might  lead  the  way  down  the  path, 
box-bordered  so  high  that  those  within  could 
not  be  seen  outside,  and  smiled  in  the  protesting 
face.  A  few  moments  more  and  they  had  come 
out  to  the  front  lawn  on  the  left  of  the  house 
177 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

and  some  distance  below  the  terrace  on  which 
it  overlooked  the  river,  and  as  they  reached  a 
group  of  spreading  magnolias  he  drew  in  his 
breath. 

"I  do  not  wonder  that  you  love  it.  And  I 
am  asking  you  to  leave  it!" 

She  looked  up.  "Come,  I  want  to  show  you 
some  of  the  old  things,  the  dear  things,  and 
then—" 

"We  will  come  back,  and  you  will  tell  me 
what  I  must  know,  Claudia?" 

She  nodded  and  pulled  the  bells  from  the 
lily-of-the-valley  she  held  in  her  hands.  "We 
will  come  back  and — I  will  tell  you." 

For  an  hour,  in  the  soft  glow  of  the  sun  now 
sinking  in  the  heavens,  they  wandered  through 
the  grounds  and  separate  gardens  of  the  old 
estate,  now  walking  the  length  of  the  long 
avenue,  shaded  by  great  elms  of  more  than 
century  age,  now  around  the  lawn  with  its 
beds  of  bleeding-hearts  and  snowdrops,  of 
wall-flowers  and  sweet-William,  of  hyacinths 
and  tulips,  with  their  borders  of  violets  and 
cowslips,  of  candytuft  and  verbenas,  and  at 
the  old  sun-dial  they  stopped  and  read  the 
hour.  Picking  an  armful  of  lilacs  and  cali- 
canthus  and  snowballs  and  blue  flags,  planted 
178 


SPRINGTIME 

in  the  days  when  the  great  trees  were  tiny  sap- 
lings, they  sent  them  in  by  Gabriel,  who  was 
following  at  a  distance,  blowing  softly  on  his 
trumpet,  and  for  some  minutes  stood  in  front 
of  the  house  and  watched  the  sun  touch,  here 
and  there,  the  old  brick  laid  in  Flemish  bond; 
then  went  back  and  sat  down  on  the  low  seat 
under  the  big  magnolia,  from  which  the  river 
could  be  glimpsed,  and  over  which  every  now 
and  then  a  white  sail  could  be  seen. 

Behind  them  the  sun  sank.  The  mass  of 
shifting  gold  and  blue  and  crimson  and  pale 
purple  lost  little  by  little  its  brilliant  splendor, 
and  slowly  over  land  and  sky  soft  twilight  fell, 
and  only  here  and  there  was  heard  the  song 
and  twitter  of  birds  as  they  made  ready  for 
the  night. 

For  a  few  moments  there  was  silence,  and 
then  in  his  Laine  held  the  hands  of  Claudia. 

"It  is  a  wonder  world,  this  old,  old  world 
of  yours  with  its  many  things  we  have  for- 
gotten. And  yet — you  will  come  to  me?  You 
are  sure  at  last,  Claudia?" 

"I  am  sure — at  last."    She  raised  her  eyes 
to  his.     "I  could  not  let  you  come  until  I 
knew  that — all   the  homes  in  all  the  world 
would  not  be  home  without — " 
179 


THE   MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

"Without  what,  Claudia?" 

"Without —  Why  do  you  make  me  tell  you 
when  you  know?  You  make  me  tell  too 
much." 

"You  cannot  tell  too  much.  Claudia! 
Claudia!" 

Overhead  the  birds  chirped  sleepily  and  one 
by  one  the  stars  came  out.  Presently  Claudia 
drew  herself  away  and  smoothed  her  kissed  and 
wind-blown  hair.  "I  am  such  a  queer  person. 
I  think  you  ought  to  know,"  she  said,  and  again 
her  shining  eyes  were  raised  to  his.  "There 
are  a  great  many  things  I  don't  care  for,  and 
I  don't  think  the  way  some  people  do  about  a 
good  many  other  things.  I  had  to  take  long 
to  be  sure." 

"It  was  very  cruel,  Claudia."  He  lifted  her 
face  to  his  and  smiled  in  the  confessing  eyes. 
"My  forgiveness  proves  the  measure  of  my 
love.  As  proof  of  penitence,  will  you  marry 
me  in  June?" 

"I  certainly — will — not!"  Again  she  drew 
away.  "Jacqueline  will  not  get  here  until 
July.  I  told  you  she  was  coming  home  to  live. 
You  don't  suppose  I'd  leave  my  mother  before 
Jacqueline  comes  home?" 
1 80 


SPRINGTIME 

"Then  when?" 

"In  October,  perhaps."  Slowly  the  color 
crept  to  her  temples.  "It  is  so  beautiful  here 
in  October.  There  isn't  a  month  in  all  the 
year  it  will  not  hurt  to  leave."  Sudden  tears 
were  in  her  eyes.  "But  it  would  hurt  worse 
not  to  be — with — you.  They  were  very  long, 
Winthrop,  the  winter  months  that  followed 
Christmas.  You  have  very  poor  manners. 
You  should  have  written  first  and  told  me  you 
had  enjoyed  yourself  instead  of  telling — " 

"What  I  could  no  longer  keep  back?  There 
was  no  time  for  manners.  I  had  to  know." 

"But  you  didn't,  and  because  I  couldn't  tell 
you.  Before,  I  have  always  been  so  quick  to 
know.  To  go  away — with  just  you!  I  had  to 
be  so  certain  there  was  no  other  way  of  happi- 
ness." In  the  darkness  she  shivered  slightly, 
and  Laine  drew  her  into  his  arms  and  held 
her  close. 

"Perhaps" — her  voice  was  so  low  he  had  to 
bend  his  head  to  hear  it — "perhaps  it  is  because 
we  are  apart  from  the  things  that  make  one 
forget  that  I  have  thought  more  about  what  it 
should  mean — what  marriage  should  mean — 
than  I  might  have  done  had  there  been  no  time 
to  think.  It  is  forever,  Winthrop,  this  life  that 
181 


THE    MAN    IN    LONELY    LAND 

we  are  entering.  Are  we  very,  very  sure  there's 
love  enough  to  last?" 

"I  am  very  sure,  Claudia."  He  lifted  her 
hands  to  his  lips  and  kissed  them.  "For  me 
your  love  will  make  of  life  a — 

"Land  that  is  not  lonely?"  Under  her 
breath  she  laughed,  to  hide  the  sob  in  her 
throat.  "Oh,  Winthrop  Laine,  it  is  what  love 
is  for !  And  no  one's  land  is  lonely  when  there 
is  love  enough!" 


THE   END 


J 


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